


A Wizard's Tale

by fierysuzaku



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Elves, FrUK, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Magic, Romance, Werewolves, Wizards, a bit of adventure, dream walking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-07-14 10:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7167908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fierysuzaku/pseuds/fierysuzaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis has been offered up as a sacrifice for the Dragon and it’s up to his friends, Gilbert and Antonio to save him. They need a wizard, and they knew just the perfect man for the job. The problem is trying to convince him that this rescue mission is actually worth his while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Two Wolves

 

They came to him on a dark peaceful night. The candles flickering and dancing as he breathes in the cold night air. He reaches for another piece of firewood, gently tossing it into the kindling fire before he turns to his visitors lingering just at the mouth of his cave. He rarely gets visitors. In fact, he prefers to never have visitors. He hates visitors you see.

“What do you want?” he asks, green eyes narrowing as the two large wolves remain silent, ruby red and olive green shining with intelligence and caution.

“I won’t ask again. What do you two mongrels want?” his voice is sharp and harsh like a whip. He does not have time for dallying. His candles are running out and he has a very nice book on herbs and poisons to finish.

No answer. He is about to ignore them, only to realize something very important. He forgot to keep the barrier down. The two idiots lingering at his doorway probably cannot even see him and are too wary of his tricks to even dare entering his domain.

_Good._

* * *

 

He makes a mental note to give his brother Alastair more wild mushrooms as a form of thanks for the charm on his next visit to replenish its energy stores. He was quite skeptical when his brother told him that the thing can function without the need of constant magic being applied.

_“Now, listen here. Ye may be better at incantations –”_

_“That’s because I actually take effort in **enunciating** it properly.”_

**_Smack!_ **

_“Ow! My head!”_

_“Ungrateful runt! I take it back. Get mauled by beasts in your sleep for all I care.”_

_“Oh, calm down. Yes. Yes. I admit. You’re the best charms maker. Now, are you giving it to me or not?”_

He can practically see Alastair’s chest puff up while his mouth quirks up a sharp grin of ‘I told you so’. Arthur shakes his head, pushing the haughty image away as he grabs and turns the amber lion perching on his table towards him instead of the entrance before pocketing it within his robes. A few moments tick before the barrier drops revealing himself to the two wolves. Two large wolves with furs of dark brown, and silver that seem to immediately notice his scent before anything else.

“It’s been a long time, Arthur. How are you?” Antonio greets, crassly morphing into his human form. Bones cracking and shrinking into place. The telltale snaps and clicks of joints and teeth. He averts his gaze. No longer covered with dark brown fur, he doesn’t need to see the man is his naked glory.  

“How I am is none of your concern. What do you want?” he asks, eyes still on the flickering candlelight. He hears shuffling, ears picking up on rough glide of cotton and breeches.

_Well, at least they were smart enough to bring clothing._

“We need help,” the second was gruffer, irritatingly loud and grating despite its unusual lack of arrogance.  

“No,” he answers quickly with no hint of hesitation. He is in no mood for favors tonight.

“At least hear us out!” Antonio protests.

“Why should I?” he questions, turning to meet their gaze. He has long severed his ties with these creatures. He thought he has made his demands explicitly clear to both their packs when he gave them the last of his mother’s clarity charms to be replicated and mass produced allowing their kind to stay sane even in the fullest and brightest of moons. In turn, they will vow never to harm, nor bother him or his family ever again. The wolves will continue to protect them yes, but they must only remain within the shadows unless something dire is truly needed.

The Kirkland family is off limits. And for these two to come, asking for aid of all things tells one thing, and one thing alone.

_They must be truly desperate to seek my aid._

The infamous Kirklands has been known throughout the land as a family of magic and wealth. Well, it used to be. Wealth and magic are never a good mix after all. It breeds jealousy, conflict and betrayal. It was in that moment, his ancestors had to choose.

They chose wealth. They relinquished their ties with magic along with its creatures. Their wealth grew and grew only to dwindle into nothing due to a rather irresponsible heir.

William Kirkland. Formally known to be Arthur’s great grandfather the man who forced his kin to be nothing but lowly servants and commoners because wealth is a nasty thing to lose when you are famous. However, that was a long time ago and Arthur doesn’t really desire to linger on such trivialities. He and his brothers never grew to know wealth or fame. They only had their mother and no one else.

Their life was simple. That is until they saw her performing magic and making deals with werewolves of all things.

_“They offer protection, love. It will be fine,” she assures them, three sons with different fathers sired out of wedlock and passion._

The eldest was named Alastair. He is big-boned and will grow to be a big gruff red-headed brute with large meaty hands that could practically crush skulls. Alastair is built like a brawler and makes it no secret that he’s as sturdy and strong as one. He also makes it no secret that despite such clumsy looking appendages, he still carries the finesse and touch of a skilled artisan and charms maker.

He particularly likes it when he shows people his best works – delicate pretty flowers and painted gold leaves coiling up like straight from a fairytale. It is hard to believe that such pretty things come from the multiple scraps of metal he keeps collecting.

_“The older the better I always say. Remember, lad. It’s not always the quality of the material but the memories it holds that makes a good charm.”_

Two years later, Alwyn comes into the family. He’s probably the most soft-spoken of them and the odd one in the lot. Dark chestnut wavy soft hair paired with such kind features that can place any person at ease. He speaks with a rather musical lit in his tone mostly due to spending too much time listening to bards sing as they cast wonderful tales of magic and love.  

However, for all the softness and calm smiles, there hides a sharp tongue and a rather vindictive ire that both brothers do not dare to rile up. He can hold quite a deep grudge and his curses are as powerful as his healing.

And then there’s he. Arthur. The scrawny runt of the family with wild unruly dirty blond hair that can rival the curiosity of cat which has the tendency to land him in the most awkward and unfortunate of circumstances.

_“I didn’t know that it was going to give me bunny ears! Why would you even make a charm like that, Alastair? Why?!”_

_“To teach ye a lesson on touchin’ stuff that don’t belong to ye.”_

He is also the most studious of the three, preferring to find a nice warm corner with nothing but the company of thick tomes and parchment until the candles burn down into useless stubs of wax. Yet, for all his scholarly ways, he still has a glint of mischief and rebellion  that likes to challenge the set norms of the world.

Three brothers. Very different yet very similar. Especially since all three didn’t manage to escape the most prominent of their clan’s features which are thick defined brows and sharp green eyes. They never dared to ask deeper of their origins. There are some things they did not desire to know. They did not need a father anyways, they had her and that is all that mattered.

_“What are they protecting us from mother?” Alastair asks all serious, thick brows a furrow and perhaps pride slightly bruised for, whom else is a better protector than he._

_“Sit lads, this is going to be a long one.” their mother sighs, a weary look shadows her aged features._

If one looks past the graying hairs and wrinkles, one can still see she was quite a beauty in her prime. Long thick golden tresses tied up in a simple braid. Sharp green eyes framed by defined brows and thick curling lashes. Lips, full yet a bit chapped, that curl into the brightest and softest of smiles.  

As they gathered around her, she told them of their history. How their family once had great magic but abandoned it for wealth. She told them how the magic they’ve abandoned opened a chasm of chaos and misfortune to befall on their family.

_“There is always a price, lads. Remember that.”_

Yes, the price of wealth needed to be balanced as is with poverty. It is because their mother grew to be poor that she reawakened the desire for magic. Magic which she carried in the things she mends, in the things she cooks, and in the things she loves.

_“They protect us from the misfortune our family attracts. It is not as strong as it was during my father’s time but one can never be too sure…”_

She explained to them that the misfortune is usually in the form of illness or death. They are the last of their kin and are more vulnerable to the mischief of the Fey and wild creatures that lurk within the forest’s green depths.

_“That’s not right! The Fey are kind!”_

He could never forget how his mother immediately paled at his words. Asking him with shaking hands if he can actually _see_ them which he replied with a haughty yes because how in the world can they be _not_ seen.

_“You mean you don’t see them?” he asks wide eyes as his mother shakes her head._

No, she cannot see them. She, unlike her sons, can only feel their presence. It is in that discovery did she continue on explaining to them that each of them is capable of magic so long as they are willing to learn.

_“I still have the books. Not all of them, but I’m sure they are enough.”_

_“But mother, your magic –”_

Arthur remembers Alwyn protesting, how her magic is not meant for such things. Arthur was too young to understand, barely pushing ten and still too easily distracted by anything pretty and cute, he only thought his brother’s concern to be ill-placed and unneeded. For, in all his innocence, found their mother to be ever strong and undefeatable. Brilliant in her ways as she teaches her unruly sons the basics of spells and charms – their interest in magic never faltering. In fact, he could even say that she is eternal and never fading as magic itself.

It is a foolish and naïve thought. A thought that will forever haunt him as the image of their mother lying lifeless on the ground clutching a set of charmed rocks with a note saying, _for the wolves_. That day, at the tender age of twelve, he came to realize what Alwyn meant. Elizabeth Kirkland’s magic was not meant for such things because her magic was not meant exist at all.

The Kirkland Family made a vow to abstain from all things magical and with that vow came the slow decay of their capacity to do magic. She used too much. Her body was not built for it. Her mind too untrained for it.

Growing better herbs and vegetables at a faster rate unhindered by weather and pests. Healing cuts and bruises. Keeping children healthy through the winter and sickly seasons. Such things are fine. Her magic was meant for little things and never for charms and potions that alter and override what was originally intended.

_Like the werewolf curse for example._

“Arthur please, we have no one else to turn!” Antonio begs, snapping Arthur out of his memories.

“I do not see how that is my problem,” he scoffs, crossing his arms, unwilling to budge for a lot of reasons. One would be that he distrusts them simply because he has long lost faith in any magical creature. Second, he can practically foresee the incoming horrors they will bring because this is Antonio and Gilbert and he will be a fool to expect otherwise. And thirdly, his brothers would be very _very_ angry with him simply because they have never really liked the idea of Arthur for giving up the charms.  

_“Are you mad! Why on earth should surrender her charms? She died making those things!”_

_“Exactly, Alastair! It’s only right. And besides, we’re not giving them **all** of them.”_

_“I have to agree on Alastair on this one Arthur. The wolves…”_

_“The wolves will only keep coming and they are more dangerous without the charms, Alwyn. If we give it to them, they’ll have to protect us.”_

_“You honestly think you can trust those beasts?”_

_“Mother trusted them to keep their word. And I am willing to take the risk.”_

_“Fine. But I’m coming with you. Alwyn, stay behind in case something happens. If we’re not back by sundown you know what to do.”_

_“Aye.”_

“Arthur? Arthur! Are you even listening?” He jolts up meeting the sight of burning rubies and snarling teeth.

“No, actually,” he admits riling up the man even more. Antonio has the sense to stop his friend from doing anything rash to their host.  

“At least hear us out! Your services never come for free, we know that,” Gilbert spits, harsh and angry, never the type to calm down unlike his brother who seems far too composed to be a werewolf.

“Oh? You didn’t come empty handed then. Okay, I’ll bite. Sit,” he says gesturing to towards a rather worn down bench made of wood and weakened by moisture. He rarely has company so he never really found the need to maintain his things that often.

“You have five minutes,”  he pours himself a cup of water but just before turning over an hourglass, he takes a moment to admire the fine white sand within the container, “You’re wasting time with your silence you know,” he mentions, turning his gaze on the two werewolves.

“We need to you help us rescue someone.”

Arthur frowns at Antonio’s statement. His talents are for crafts, repair and growing rare herbs. Yes, he can still fight and shoot arrows like any man but these are werewolves and they are more than strong enough.

_How does staging a rescue require **my** services?_

“Who is this someone?” he asks, eyes narrowing as the pair looked at each other with mirrored hesitation.  

“A good friend. Listen, Arthur. He was sacrificed for the dragon,” Antonio answers, quickly explaining the situation at hand before Arthur could inquire any further.

But he was having none of that.  

“You two idiots have many friends.” It used to include him, but those days are long distant and gone. “And last time I checked the dragon is not interested in wolves or mortals... it prefers... those of the Fey. Pretty creatures but with strong magic. Like elves…” he pauses and things just click into place. “You want me to help you rescue an _elf_?”

Perhaps it was his tone or visible disgust that made both creatures wince. They should know better than to come to him with such an offer.

“No. I do not care how dear this friend of yours is. I WILL HELP NO ELF. After what they’ve done to me, you actually expect me to help?” he rises from his chair and bellows with finger pointing towards the entrance, “No! No amount of gold or silver will convince me. You have your answer now lea –”  

“Magic.”

He freezes.

“What?”

“Magic. We will give you magic,” Gilbert repeats, visibly pleased in garnering his attention.

“Are you offering what I think you’re offering?” he ventures, eyes narrowing in suspicion, neither men dares to answer, allowing him to make his own conclusions.

“And the Elders are allowing this?” he asks, wondering if his years of seclusion has earned their forgiveness. Not that he had done anything to require forgiveness. Not that he _needed_ to earn anything, he did _nothing_ wrong.

_No, those old fools would rather rot than retract a punishment. But maybe out of necessity?_

He was never a fan of the elves’ high council of elders. He finds them far too restricting and close-minded. Far too old to understand the need of change and the desire for improvement, it is a true wonder how they manage to maintain a steady influence amongst the Fey.

_But then again, this is the Fey we are talking about. They are governed by a different set of rules._

“No… the Elders are not aware of this arrangement,” Antonio shuffles under his glare which is quite laughable considering how strong the man actually is compared to his own lithe frame.    

“Last time I checked they’re the only one who has jurisdiction over these kinds of things,” his eyes narrow and his mouth set into a firm line. He does not like the direction of this conversation.

“They are.”

For a moment, there is silence – nothing but the crackling of firewood and the whistling of the night breeze. The three men sitting still as stone while their shadows dance to the flickering flames.

Arthur takes a deep calming breath and speaks.

“Let me get this straight. You are offering to return my magic if I help rescue this friend of yours. BUT, the persons who are involved in bestowing my magic back are unaware and possibly against it. Did I get that right?”

Both nod.

“I don’t believe it,” he declares, keeping the venom locked in his tone.

“Why don’t you see for yourself then?” Gilbert grins, brandishing a crystal globe upon his palm.

“A crystal ball,” he deadpans, irritation rising in his chest when Gilbert’s grin widens and opens into a short cackle.  

“It’s not an ordinary crystal ball, Arthur,” Antonio informs, taking the ball from Gilbert as he stands to move closer to him. Arthur hesitates, there is nothing really notable in the thing, dull pearly white that reflects some of the fire’s yellow glow. Up close, the surface looks dented and pocked. Unpolished with scratches on the surface, its unappealing appearance makes Arthur’s hackles rise even more.

“It’s okay to touch it, Arthur,” Antonio assures, catching his hesitance.

Arthur ignores his assurances and chooses to bid his time, watching the shadows and light dance across the globe’s uneven surface. Was it just him, or is the thing looking more and more unappealing as time goes on. It is as if something is pushing him away from the thing.

He pushes the ill foreboding in his stomach and dares to touch. It’s warm. Strangely smoother than expected. His fingers run across the surface, green eyes entranced as the orb begins to emit a soft glow. And then, he feels it. A steady thrum. A familiar beat that seem to immediately sync with his very soul. Warmth, soft comforting warmth.

_Magic. My magic._

“How?” he asks, breathy with eyes still wide and disbelieving.

“As you’ve probably noticed, we’re quite desperate,” Gilbert admits, face hard and stern while everything becomes blaringly clear as reality comes crashing down on him.

“Blood hell!” he exclaims, forcefully tearing his fingers away from the now glowing globe. He can see it now, tendrils of energy leaking through the container beaconing him to come closer, telling him to take it back to the place where it truly belongs. “You stole this didn’t you!” he turns his gaze away, towards the darkness of the night, away from the coiling lights and warmth. “You idiots.” His voice shakes, falters into a whisper, the light is still there when he turns, luring him back. “Do you have any idea how stupid this –”

“Do you want your magic back or not?” Antonio’s eyes narrow, long tapered fingers clenching around the orb taking it further away from his grasp. Arthur’s fingers clench, tight and unyielding, pushing away the memory, the sensation from his fingertips.

_How long has it been, since you’ve held magic in your hands?_

Too long, far too long.

“Who’s the elf?” he asks, hands and shoulders suddenly lax. He wants this. He wants him magic back.

The two look at each other once more, making Arthur’s stomach drop (he’s not going to like this), as they answer in unison.

“Francis.”

“Francis,” he hisses. Snarls. Eyes flashing with indignation as his chest fills with fire and spite.

_How dare they!_

“You want _me_. To rescue HIM?!”

“We didn’t say your magic came cheap,” Gilbert intercedes, eyes sharp for any possible outburst. “We know you two do not go well with each other’s company,” he says and Arthur briefly considers chucking a stone to his thick head. “But we need you to help us save him,” he finishes, head held high and back straight as if doing the right thing is enough of a justification. Arthur forgets how little wolves care for other people’s personal affairs but their own.

“Why should I?” he challenges, chest puffing out as he dares go toe to toe with them. There are a lot of things in the world Arthur Kirkland is not willing to do and this is one of them. Maybe in the past, when everything was less complicated and straightforward, he would have said yes. But now?

_No. Never. He can rot in the beast’s horde for all I care._

“Can you two not do it yourselves? You were foolish enough to rob from the Elders... might as well include dragon slaying and rescue missions into your list,” he mocks brandishing his arms into a wide arc.

“You don’t think we tried that?” Antonio asserts himself into the argument. “You think we didn’t try helping him before going to you? We only got as far the edge of the forest before we almost got killed by the barrier. We asked for help from others but they were too weak or frightened to help. Francis is our friend. We don’t know what happened between you two but –”

“Exactly! You don’t know. You don’t understand. That’s the whole point of this argument. You. don’t. know.”

“Then tell us, dammit!” Gilbert’s eyes flash dangerously as their tempers flare. “We were friends before all this shit. Tell us what happened. Tell us why you hate him so much. Tell us why, Arthur,” he demands, his words grates as they echo through the cave.

**_Tell us. Tell us. TEEEELLLL UUUSSSS._ **

“HE STOLE MY MAGIC! HE RIPPED IT OUT OF ME. TORE A PIECE OF MY SOUL AND LEFT A GAPING HOLE IN MY HEART WHILE MY SO-CALLED PROTECTORS WERE CARELESS ENOUGH TO LET HIM! There, you have your answer! Happy now?” His chest heaves, tired and worn as the familiar flashes of memories comes to haunt him. He ignores the guilt-ridden faces as he takes a deep harrowing breath.

It is wrong of him. He knows it. The wolves protect them from the mischief of the Fey. They protect him from ill-wills. But they can never protect him from their verdicts and laws.

“Arthur.”

“Don’t. I know that look Antonio. Don’t even try. Don’t apologize. Don’t try to make it better. It’s done. My answer is no.”  

“Arthur, please. Don’t you want your magic? Your Sight?” Antonio pleads while Arthur remembers the painful hollowness that followed after the extraction. The conscious knowledge that something is missing nagging at the back of your mind, it was only when he tried to conjure a spell did he understand. He cannot see nor hear nor feel anything. No presence. No aura. Nothing. Just a bland flatness that used to be so full of life and color in its place.

And how he tried getting that color back. That spark.

_Just the Sight. Just that and nothing more. Keep the magic but please don’t take It away from me._

“I survived for years without them. I’m sure I can last a few more,” he replies, flat and cold as a heavy sense of resignation settles in his chest.

“I see…” Gilbert’s eyes narrow and without warning grabs the globe from Antonio. “Well then, I guess we don’t need this anymore do we?” he declares as he starts to hurl the ball into the cave’s stone wall. Arthur’s body moves before we could even fully speak.

“No!” He protests, hands clutching onto the werewolf’s steady grip.

“Not as indifferent as we appear to be aren’t we Arthur.” His bright ruby red eyes soften as he lowers his throwing arm.  “I’ve known you for years. You love magic. You thrive in magic. Without magic –”

“Without magic, I _what_?” Arthur snaps. “Go ahead, Gilbert. Tell me. Tell me how _weak_ I’ve become. Tell me how I’ve been reduced into nothing but a hermit that mixes herbs and sews clothes for a living. Tell me how I’ve lost my friends. Tell me how I am nothing but a shadow of what I was.” His words taper into a whisper. A sob escapes and that is all. He will not let them see his tears or his pain.  

He takes another breath. And another once more. His shoulders shakes as his arms tighten around his waist. He speaks.

“Leave.”

* * *

 

 

Things did not go as Gilbert had planned. He expected a fight. An argument. A bitter confrontation of why Arthur severed his ties with them – they are not Fey after all, their human attributes enables them to be seen by ordinary humans. A bit of barbed words on their inability to follow through their promises because that is how Arthur can be at times. However, he most certainly didn’t expect the man to refuse their offer.

 _This is getting complicated._ He concludes as he watches the shaking man before him suddenly realizing how much the years changed him.  

**_What do we do now? We can’t do this without him._ **

Antonio and he share a glance as they begin drafting alternatives through their mental link. One of the many perks of being a werewolf, mental links enables packs to communicate with each other in distances. The only disadvantage here is the extreme need for focus. The greater the distance, the harder it is to maintain the link.  

**_I don’t know._ **

“I mean it. Leave. Now,” Arthur declares no longer shaking with his back ramrod straight as his bright green eyes meet his gaze head on. But for all his bravado, his hands still tremble – tiny tremors just at the fingertips before they ball up tightly refusing to show weakness.

_Always a stubborn brat._

“Fine, then,” he sighs, giving the ball a toss, cackling as he watches the former wizard scramble to catch it. “We’ll leave. We will never bother you ever again,” he states feeling Antonio boring holes at him. “But before that, I want you to smash that against the floor. Severe your ties with magic completely,” he demands, watching how Arthur’s fingers involuntarily clench protectively around orb while his face grows pale from shock.  

“W-What?”

**_Gilbert, what are you –_ **

**_Hush, Tonio. I’m trying a different approach._ **

“You heard me. It’s better this way. That thing has been holding you back. You are chained to the past, Arthur. You no longer need magic. You’ve survived without it just like any common human being. So perhaps, it’s time to let it go, for good this time,” he explains, while both men stare at him in horror. ****

**_Gilbert, that’s too harsh!_ **

**_Sometimes, you need to be harsh._ **

“I – No! W-What are you saying?! I-I can’t.” He backs away, the orb now clutch tightly against his chest.  

“Yes. Yes you can,” he presses. “If you truly want to move on, you need to do this. Break it, Arthur. You want us to leave, right? Then break it. Break the ball and we will leave in peace. Well?” he challenges, Arthur bites his lip and gulps. With a loud cry he raises his arm, the orb glinting against the firelight, and swings it against the wall only to stop mere inches from it.

“You are cruel,” Arthur whispers, eyes still gleaming as his grip falters when Gilbert graces him with a smile.

“No, I am kind. We can find other ways to save Francis,” he replies, shocking both men once more.

**_What are you talking about, Gilbert?_ **

“It will take time. Maybe we’d end up dead in the end. But, we won’t force you, Arthur.” His tone was calming and low enough for Arthur to relax and listen.

“The reason why you’ve relegated yourself into this darkness is because you still harbor hope for your magic to return to you. For your Sight to return. You still meditate to strengthen your mind. You still read those old tomes of spells and potions,” he pauses, taking in the bewilderment in the other’s features.

“How I know is not important, right now. Right now, you need to make a choice. Will you take this chance? The hope you’ve been secretly craving or will you allow yourself this freedom. Freedom from your hopes and dreams as you truly face reality. Freedom to move on.”

The former wizard looks at him. Eyes suddenly sharp and observant as he begins searching Gilbert for a motive. A chink. He backs away from the wall and approaches them, slow and cautious. Deliberate and soundless steps like a curious cat. Within moments, they stand face to face, with Gilbert dwarfing the mortal by a full head.

“A day,” Arthur asserts, shoving the ball back towards his chest making Gilbert wince a bit as solid stone digs into his sternum. “Give me a day to think about it. I’m sure the fool can keep himself alive for a day more, right?” Arthur says as he turns and walks away, returning back to his little nook of dust and books.

“Okay, we’ll you give that,” he nods, gesturing for Antonio to follow as they make their exit running through the dark night.

**_You can’t be serious. Arthur is our only hope of saving Francis._ **

**_No, Arthur is our easiest way to saving Francis. His assistance will ensure a better success rate than the other methods involved. But –_ **

**_But what?_ **

**_He deserves a choice._ **

* * *

 

****

**_Why do you think Arthur didn’t tell us it was Francis who took his magic away?_ **

The question breaks through the fog of sleepiness, eliciting a grunt from the silver wolf.

 _Of course, expect Tonio to ask such questions **now** of all times. _ He grumbles briefly recalling their little meeting with the green-eyed wizard.

 ** _Knowing him, he must have thought that it would damage our friendship with Francis._** He snatches a peek, his companion is currently staring at him. Far too alert and bright for his tastes.

 ** _He’s such a softie. But he’s right you know. I think I would be very angry at Francis if I knew it was him._** Antonio’s eyes grow distant, perhaps going back in time, five years prior when everything was just a bit more peaceful. Gilbert keeps silent, watching as even older memories filter through the link.

A pair of brothers. Locks of red and gold. Demanding an audience with their leader of all things. Foolish but brave boys that offers up hope in exchange of protection.

Unruly blond strands burnt by magic as melodious laughter rings in the air.

_“Shut up, Frog!”_

**_It’s hard to believe such a runt would grow to be a great wizard. How old was he again?_** He asks, never the type to really remember such details. After all, once you go past your first century, you tend to stop counting.

 ** _Hm… he started learning at a very young age. But I distinctly remember him being skilled enough to summon creatures when he was 16 or was it 18?_** Antonio hums, tilting his head a bit trying to recall the milestone.

 ** _No, it was 15. That was when he first summoned that annoying fox and couldn’t summon anything else._** He notes, a growl rumbles in his throat at the memory of the trickster. False smiles and lies. The sight of those empty violet eyes makes his blood boil. He scoffs, shakes out the bristle in his fur and the curl of his lips.

 ** _Are you still bitter about Vanya’s pranks?_** Antonio ventures, earning a well-aimed glare that makes him place his paws out in a pacifying gesture. **_Okay. Okay. I won’t mention him. So… he started playing with dark magic by then…five years without magic is a long time…_** The topic shifts much to Gilbert’s relief. He has no desire to linger on the memories of humiliation and regret.

_“Gilbert… he is adorable, yes?” Stupid fox._

**_I forget how fast time is for humans. How do you still manage to keep track of the years is beyond me._** He comments while Antonio gives him one of those light seemingly harmless smiles that look more predatory in his lycan form.  

 ** _I find the concept of humans and time interesting. It reminds me of the time before I was cursed._** Antonio informs, opening up a glimpse of a past Gilbert dared not venture. Everyone of their kind had their fair share of madness. Quick tempers and uncontrollable strength is a dangerous mix. Add in a bit of animalistic savagery and chaos will emerge.

 ** _You still miss being human?_** The words ‘until now’ remains unspoken. Gilbert was born a werewolf so he does not really share any sentiments for it unlike Antonio who was turned against his will.

 ** _Of course, but what’s done is done. The dead will never rise nor can we undo the past. It’s best to just go forward._** Olive eyes soften, shoulders grow lax as his lids droop.

 ** _How do you think Francis even managed to extract his magic?_** Gilbert asks as the softness in Antonio’s features dissolves into narrowed eyes and discontented frowns.

**_Arthur trusted him. In his own strange way, he trusted Francis. And the Elders used it to their advantage._ **

It was technically a given but somehow, the fact being spoken between them makes it even more real and tangible. **_How long do you think will it take them to figure out that we stole this?_** Antonio ponders, glancing at the leather bag nestling between his paws.

 ** _Probably a day or two. It’s not as guarded as it was back then. But we need to sleep somewhere else for a while._** Gilbert estimates, raising his eyes towards the starry night. Werewolf packs are more complicated than it appears. It can be quite a complex structure of politics and pack relations that seem to appear as one congealed entity to the outside world.

There is the ruling pack and the packs that choose to be guided by it. Basically, the strongest and most stable. There are no elder packs because most wolves back then barely live to see a whole century. They just multiply and infect in a faster and more uncontrolled rate causing a lot of bad blood between the humans and the Fey.

However, perhaps it is because there are no such things as purity amongst them that the generations following them begin to become less volatile and the older ones like him seem calmer as the years pass. There are also the Kirkland charms which basically saved most of their sanity during the full moons. It was a curious thing, simple stones no larger than one’s fist with runes deeply etched upon its surface. But its most defining feature was a circle in the middle with a carved wolf under it.

Arthur’s mother charmed three stones (Arthur gave up two more years later), each for the wolf territories scattered all over the kingdom. Charmed stones that not only able to retain its magical properties despite the many years but are able to endow its qualities to other stones as well. He remembers the skepticism that met the brothers as they explained the charm.

_“Just place about ten stones beside it for a month. It’s won’t be as strong as the mother but it is enough.”_

Yes, he remembers the memory well – a boy no older than 12 talking to a bunch of werewolves whiles his beanstalk of a brother pushing 16 glares at them straight on. In fact, he distinctly remembers their amazement the following full moon. They gathered by the stones, feeling the transformations set in as their minds are invaded by savage beasts, savage beasts that were apparently held at bay because for the first time in a long time, the full moon did not bring the familiar cloud of red.

**_Hm… What if they find out early? Arthur is a sitting duck if that happens._ **

Antonio’s brows furrow with concern making Gilbert scoff at the sheer ridiculousness of the statement.

**_Please, even if they do confront Arthur. What makes you think that guy will take anything lying down. He’s weakened Tonio but he can still fight. In fact, he’s a lot more dangerous now than ever._ **

**_Oh? What makes you say that?_ **

**_Do you honestly believe that sewing and gardening are the only things he does these days?_** Gilbert challenges as a low whine escapes from Antonio’s throat.

**_You know how bad I am with these types of things Gil._ **

**_Well, to start, his hands looks more like an archer’s than a tailor… no longer as smooth or soft looking. Probably from chopping his own wood and making his own furniture._ **

Antonio throws him a look.

 ** _What? You honestly think he’d drag all those chairs and tables into the forest?_ ** Gilbert remarks with an upturned snort.

 ** _Besides, he smells like a hunter. And his frame, he’s always been a runt so I don’t really expect him to buff up but it’s a lot more steady and balanced._** He pauses in his observation while Antonio supplies his own. They exchange thoughts, musings and comparisons.

 ** _He made good use of those five years, Tonio. He may have moped around in the dark but that didn’t mean he allowed himself to be defenseless for long. Especially not after what happened._ ** No, the last thing Arthur Kirkland would do is to let his guard down. That barrier in the cave proved it. He had long lost his trust in their protection and has sought for his own means.

 ** _You have a point._** Antonio nods, adding a bit more details to Gilbert observations. **_The cave was loaded with charged runes… they are set to repel and weaken magic. Easily activated, even without magic. If anyone tries to trespass, they fall into a trap._** The thought makes Antonio smile and adds, **_Arthur was never much a fair player. Too sneaky._**

 ** _Exactly. So, rest your worries. He’ll be fine._** Gilbert assures, resuming a more comfortable position, ready to let the conversation drop.

After a few minutes, Antonio asks again and Gilbert doesn’t bother opening his eyes this time.

**_Do you think he’ll say yes?_ **

**_I don’t know. He’s a stubborn brat._ **

**_I sort of forgotten just how stubborn but hey, we’re not exactly the most obedient of creatures._** Gilbert thinks as his lips curl into a tiny smile. As memories of childhood begin to ebb and starts to dream of green fields and wooden swords.

**_Goodnight, Gil._ **

**_Night, Tonio._ **

****

* * *

 

 

Arthur throws another block of wood into the fire and watches the hungry flames consume it. His books lay untouched as his thoughts are troubled.

 _Magic_.

The word thrums through him like a lost friend. Gilbert had a point, he begrudgingly admits to himself as he heaves a heavy sigh, burrowing further into his chair. He loves magic. He, in a greater part of his life, involved nothing but seeing sparks and lights dance upon his fingertips. He could never deny that. Yet at the same time, there is a part of him – a tiny almost infinitesimal part that can truly say that he does not need magic.

 _Are you sure?_ Arthur bites his bottom lip in frustration, raking his hands through the unruly locks. No, he is not sure. But at the same time, he does consider the freedom it can give him. The burden of waiting and hoping, finally over. A sweet but cruel mercy, if there ever was one.

His brows furrow in thought as he deliberates the choices before him. If he helps them, he gets his magic back. If he doesn’t, he’ll have to destroy it with his very hands. Neither option seems pleasing enough for him to even consider. He has lived for five years without magic, sure it wasn’t an immediate good start with his brothers dragging him out of the pubs and tying him to a tree until he ‘comes to his senses’. It was an extreme yet strangely productive exercise that Arthur for the life of will never admit.

It made him realize how helpless and blind he was without his magic but at the same time make him see how dependent he had become with it. It was in that tiny piece of clarity did he see that life does not depend in magic but goes on with or without it.

So he stops drowning himself in mead and ale and starts thinking of ways to make do with the things he already have in his arsenal which wasn’t really much if he were to be honest. The first thing he did was to talk to his brothers who welcomed him with such open relief that it momentarily worried him if they were possessed or something.

But no, they weren’t. The Kirkland brothers are never known for their emotional maturity or for their ability to express it. They believe in actions more than words and he was beyond touched to see his old room still made up and ready for him.

They shouldn’t have but they did. And that was enough to give him the most peaceful of sleeps he ever had in a long time. The next morning he woke up sober and thinking a bit clearer now that the haze of restlessness has left him.

They were at the kitchen. Preparing breakfast and with a rare warm treat of black tea for him. He whispered a thank you while the other two nod in acknowledgment. They waited for him but he could feel the impatience riling up silently telling him to talk already. He waited for them to snap and they didn’t. They waited until he was truly ready to talk.

He remembers giving a deep great sigh before telling his tale. How he lost his magic. His Sight. How he feels betrayed and wounded. How _hurt_ he was. How desperate he became searching for solutions to no avail.

_“Please tell us you didn’t try selling your soul to some demon,” Alwyn exasperates, forehead wrinkling in worry at his growing silence._

_“Lad, tell me you didn’t,” Alastair hisses, glares in disappointment._

_“I was desperate. But it’s not like I succeeded or anything.”_

He was so drained of his magic that he cannot even attract a soul hungry demon. They asked if he tried stealing it back which he did. But, he was no longer welcome in the Fey world and even if he were, he cannot see it let alone enter it.

They offered help and yet for some reason Arthur didn’t want to involve them. The Fey can be cruel and vindictive things but Arthur knows they would not harm unless wronged. And perhaps it was a bit of overprotection on his part. They are strong magic users but Arthur is only one truly made for combat. So instead he asked for help in other things and after what seemed like months of stagnation, things started moving once more.  

Or so he thought.

He had changed overtime, learned new skills to replace and compensate for what was lost. He took up archery once more, remembering how his fingers bled and thickened upon the repeated practices and errors. Magical arrows are very different from normal ones. His hands once soft now have grown rough and hard through woodwork and chores. He read different books and tried seeing the world in a different light.

He failed in that aspect, just like when he gives a beaconing wave expecting an object to land upon his palm, he cannot truly forget magic. Which makes him shift back to the situation at hand.

In all honesty, he found no purpose in saving the elf especially with the risks involved.

 _I don’t even like him._ He concludes recall the all-too-flamboyant elf that made magic flowers bloom and wrap around one’s head.

_“Stop it! I do not want your stupid flower crowns!”_

_“But lilies look so nice on you. They cover up those nasty thick brows of yours.”_

He first met Francis by accident when he was but twelve, with his mother’s death still fresh upon his memory and heart. And by accident he means accidentally trapping the elf in a magic circle destined for a unicorn. So imagine his surprise where instead of a beautiful glorious stead of white, he has a panicked elf pounding at the circle’s green translucent walls like a madman muttering and screaming in a strange language which he assumed to be Elvish.

The elf looked to be in his mid-twenties but he is obviously older than he looks. His long golden hair looked like silk threads tied in a braid that was beginning to unravel with his furious attempt of freedom. His eyes were a strange mix of blue and violet, reminding him of indigo dye.

Their eyes met and for a moment, the world was silent.

_“Well, don’t just stand there cretin! Let me out!”_

Such eloquence.

_“What’s an elf doing in my magic circle?” he asks instead because he wanted a unicorn, not an elf._

Elves are strange snobbish creatures that like to hold their noses up in the air like they owned the lands. He prefers the brownies and pixies. They are friendlier and are more willing to play with him. The brothers took her death differently. There were tears yes but after that night, there seemed to be a silent agreement that no tears were to be shed anymore because she won’t like to see her boys crying. They needed to be strong.

So Alastair goes out and hunts. Looks for a job to provide for them. Alwyn took to the gardens and chores. Insisting that none of the two even dare touch one pan in his kitchen unless he allowed it. Arthur never understands that one rule, he and Alastair were fine cooks. Their house was a good house, small but enough room for them to grow into. 

They left him with gathering firewood and herbs which his friends already offered to provide so he didn’t really do much except play and study magic.  

_“This is yours?! How dare you try and capture me!”_

_“I wasn’t. I was looking for a unicorn. But obviously they’re too smart for my trap unlike **somebody** ,” he quips and the elf twitches in irritation._

_“This is not the circle for unicorns. This is – why do I even bother educating a child like you. Your magic is so vulgar and gruff. It truly shows off your inexperience, you can’t even get it right. I bet you can’t even undo your own spell.”_

_“Of course, I can.”_

_“Prove it.”_

It was a challenge. A catalyst of things to come. A spark of something more. It was that tiny little thing, which made him unconsciously try to impress the elf and prove him wrong.

_“See, I told you. There is nothing wrong with my magic.”_

_“Of course, such a great wizard you’ll be.”_

Okay, perhaps he did have a bit of infatuation for the elf. But he was young. Naïve and so foolish on the matters of the heart. And besides, such feelings were trampled on by constant denial and the very fact that Francis cannot possibly love or find Arthur attractive.

_“Who’s that?” he asks bluntly gesturing at the portrait._

_“Joan. She is a very important person to me.”_

For Arthur knows, he is nothing like the girl on the portrait. His hair does not curl softly, nor does he smile kindly. He is all sharps and angles hardly anything akin to the woman whom the elf calls Joan. He remembers seeing Francis looking so silent and morose. It didn’t fit him. Arthur didn’t like that look on him at all.

_“You caught me at a bad time, little rabbit.”_

He will never fully forgive his brothers for telling the elf how he accidentally gave himself bunny ears for a month. Normally, Arthur would have decked him or called him Frog for such a term but refrained.

_“I always catch you at a bad time.”_

It was true in a sense. There was never a good time between them. Francis was busy so Arthur decides to annoy him with pranks. Arthur was reading when Francis decides to bait him away from his studies with treats.

_“So… where is she now?” he asks, because the Frog said it in the present tense therefore it must mean what Arthur thinks it means. The elf girl was his sweetheart and probably broke up with the idiot or something._

His barely developed his skills of subtly at the naïve age of 15 and it will take him time to develop his sense of conversational etiquette.  

_“Gone.”_

He left it at that. It will take time for him to understand what Francis meant. It will take him a year later when he stumbles on a drunken elf moaning about a dragon found in the Northern Borders and a girl who will forever be gone from him.

It took a bit of reading to put two and two together. But it made him realize that there is such a great dragon, immune to all Fey magic. It was said that such tolerance came from the many fey creatures it had consumed. It doesn’t eat them per se but it keeps them in its hoard and slowly saps their magic away leaving nothing but dust.

So every few centuries or so, the Elves will sacrifice one of their own to appease the beast and prevent it from taking more than it should. It has been said that they select the poor soul though lots and to keep it fair no one is immune. Even the Elders.

_A cruel destiny indeed._

This Joan was their last sacrifice, and despite the many years, the weight of her absence is still very fresh upon Francis’ heart. It was then he saw that Francis no longer had any room in his heart but for her. It hurt, more than a mere twinge. Perhaps, he placed his hopes higher than he thought.

But what’s done is done. He will not pine for another’s affection like a lovesick maid. It was a phase and now it has reached its conclusion. With his frail infatuation firmly uprooted, he began to devote himself further into the study of Magic. He expanded beyond the limits of mortality as his definition of black and white blurs.

After all, magic is magic.

And then one night… everything changed.

_“Francis?”_

_“Hello, little rabbit,” he greets with a familiar smile, reminding Arthur just how long it has been since they have properly interacted._

_“Why are you here?”_

He remembers Francis’ face. His usually smiling lips thin with displeasure and seriousness. He remembers the large heaving sigh as if he was bracing himself from something.

_“To bring you a warning. The Elders are not pleased with you. You’re treading on dangerous ground.”_

_“Pardon?”_

_“Magic. You’re playing with black magic. And it’s corrupting you. You reek of it.”_

He remembers the wrinkle of disgust, as if the elf could smell it on him. His voice, deep and tinge with disappointment, as he chastised the wizard like a foolish wayward _child_. He remembers the familiar twinge of pain in his chest which he hid with a sharp scoff of dismissal.  

_“Corruption? Please, those old men are just scared of mortals knowing more than they do. Besides, I do not see how mortal affairs are any of their business. Magic is magic.”_

Yes. Magic is magic. Learning more of it is not a crime. There is nothing wrong with being knowledgeable in how demons extract and bottle souls. There is nothing wrong with learning how to reanimate the dead. He’s not stupid. He won’t actually dare perform the dark art of necromancy. Even _he_ has his limits.

_But those old fools don’t know that, do they?_

And apparently, neither did Francis.

_“Arthur I’m serious. They’re starting to see you as a threat.”_

_“To what? I’m not doing anything.” Arthur is beginning to understand now. He was a wild card. A possible **threat**._

_“You’re making this very difficult little rabbit,” he whispers._

Before Arthur knew what was happening, he was suddenly immobile and Francis was mere inches from him. He remembers the warmth before the pain – the feeling of his chest beating against Francis’ hand, hammering in panic.  

He remembers screaming. Clawing and raking his fingers down the ground on which he had fallen. He begged, pleaded for the pain to stop.

**_End me. Just end me right now._ **

_“I’m sorry.”_

Darkness was a welcomed respite.


	2. The Dreamer

 

“Hello, Arthur.”

He tenses at the voice, muscles coiling in ready for an attack. He turns, expecting a small army of intruders at the entrance – only, much to his surprise – the intruder was alone.

_Or perhaps that’s what he wants you to think,_ he suspects, eyes narrowing at the boy who deceptively looks barely into his teens.

“Matthew.”

The elf boy smiles.

“You remember me, I’m flattered.”

“How? How can I see you?” he asks, fingers brushing against the dagger hidden within his robes. It is better to play clueless for now, his brief encounter with his magic could have possibly given him some of his Sight back but he doubts it is that easy.

“So it’s true then. Your Sight is gone,” the child frowns, soft features carrying such a melancholic air that makes Arthur falter. He looks _so_ sincere in his sadness.

_No._ He stops himself. This is a lesson he refuses to repeat. Magical creatures are inherently selfish and will always prioritize their relations with their own kind. Nothing can change that and Arthur refuses to.  

“I haven’t seen your kind for more than half a decade, _child_ ,” he snipes and the boy flinches, as if he too had played a part in all this. He had only met Matthew a few times and they were barely enough words exchanged between them for Arthur to claim they are friends. The child always hiding behind Francis’ robes whenever they crossed paths, always clutching a white doll shaped like a bear.

_“This is my ward, Matthew.”_

_“Say hello, Matthew. Don’t worry. Those eyebrows don’t bite.”_

“Oh.”

“What are you doing here, Matthew?” he asks for young elves are rarely allowed to venture outside their realms. Matthew especially, since his health is rather frail. Fair wavy curls and light violet eyes.

_If the child be anymore quieter, he’d be a ghost._

“I… I don’t know…”

“What do you mean… you don’t know?” his voice was sharp, probing while child merely shrugs.

“I never know where my dreams take me.”

“Dreams? This is a dream?” he asks and the boy gives him a confirming nod as a dawn of realization comes to him.

_Matthew is a dream walker._ He cannot help but stare. Dream walking is a rare skill. Walkers are able to use their dreams as tools, allowing them to travel through time, worlds, and stretch the very fabric of reality through their dreams. However, the price for this talent will always take a toll on their health. Some were born blind. Others barely make it through their teens.

Dream walkers die young and only a rare few can survive the amount of magical backlash and strain. The greater their ability, the greater is the toll on their mind and body. So, it would make sense if Matthew said he had no control over his dreams.

_In fact, it is safer that way if he wants to live through another decade._

“Yes. I’m not intruding on anything am I?” The question makes Arthur laugh.

“No. Not really. Is this your first walking dream?”

“I’ve had dreams before. They usually lead me to different worlds and places. It’s a first time to dream somewhere closer to home,” he explains while Arthur watches him with caution.

“I do not know how to leave if that’s what you’re thinking…”

No, that was not Arthur was thinking. He’s thinking about the many _worlds_. Apparently, being unable to control your dreams can also mean being unable to control the amount of power you exert.

_Like going through the divide between parallel worlds…_

“You must have seen a lot of interesting things then, despite your youth,” he commends which makes the boy chuckle once more, but this time with apparent amusement upon his lips.

“I know. I know. You’re technically older than me but –” Matthew laughs, a bit louder this time.

“Oh, Arthur. Do you honestly think I’m _that_ young?” he asks quirking a thin brow, the smile refusing to leave his lips while Arthur just stares.

“B-But, you’re his ward.”

“In a sense, I am. Francis, has been kind enough to take care of me after Joan left… she was my niece, you see…” he trails off, eyes suddenly growing soft, lingering upon memories Arthur does not want to intrude on.

“What are you?” Arthur asks, suspicious of the smiling child.

“I am dream walker…”

“For how long?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know… I lost count after my first millennia… humans are so particular with ages.”

“How?” Arthur is struggling to understand. Matthew is old. _Very_ old. Older than Francis old and yet…

“This is my price,” he explains, “most dream walkers die young. That is what the book tells you, but in fact, we live far longer than one thinks. We just _look_ young when we die.”

“Wait, you mean that in exchange, you are stuck in perpetual youth?”

“You make it sound so nice,” Matthew grimaces, “but you forget about how we’re basically bedridden for most of it. I’m lucky enough to be able to at least go on short strolls. We met on one of them remember? You were there to visit the sprites…” he reminds which Arthur just nods along trying to comprehend the information he just gained.

“Just how long do dream walkers live?” he asks, and once again Matthew gives him one of those knowing smiles.

“I honestly do not know. It depends on who has been afflicted. Humans really do die young… but magical creatures tend to live longer. There is also the case of how much of their powers do they use and how well they are taken care of. Walkers are not always fortunate… some are afraid of what we see. They see us more as monsters that invade people’s dreams and manipulate them to our biding,” he answers.

“You speak of it as if it were a curse.”

“Is it not? I cannot age further than what I am right now. I can feel myself growing weaker and weaker with each passing year. They say one should enjoy life to the fullest. I spend my days sleeping, for it is only in dreams that I am able to actually live. My only saving grace was Joan, but even then she was taken from me during the Ceremony of Choice.”

“Is that what they call it? Highly ironic considering the utter lack of it,” he scoffs, shifting in his seat.

_Wait… was I sitting or standing…I can’t remember!_ he briefly panics before reminding himself that this is a dream and things do not really makes sense in them.

_Was Matthew inside the cave or outside? Focus Arthur!_

“You need to relax, dreams are really fluid things. Places shift, the colors change, and the passage of time is hard to pin down,” Matthew assures, placing a hand on his shoulder which continues to baffle him because he distinctly remembers keeping his distance from the boy.  

“But since I’m here… can we please talk about Francis?” The question takes him off guard.

_It is possible that Matthew is from the past and not the current present?_ He wonders because he had read that dream interactions aren’t always limited on occurring within the present timeline but has a tendency to transcend the rule of time itself. This means glimpses of the past and of the future, and on rare occasions, it is the past meeting the future or vice versa.

_Or maybe it’s not as rare as they say._

“Sure. Why not. Everybody seems to be,” he sighs, relaxing back into his chair while the boy grapples for a conversation starter.

“I know you’re angry about the extraction.”

_An understatement._

“I have reason to be,” he quips while the boy nods, choosing to hover just at the edge of the cave this time possibly to keep Arthur at ease with the situation.

He was not just angry. He felt betrayed. Not just by Francis but by his so-called protectors as well. He remembered thinking, Where are they? Why aren’t they here?

_“Arthur, be reasonable. We didn’t know the elves were going to do this to you.”_

_“I **am** reasonable, Antonio. I trusted your kind to protect us but when I actually needed your help you weren’t there!”_

_“How many times must we explain? We didn’t hear anything! One moment you were fine and the next thing we knew you were lying on the floor unconscious.”_

He should have known better than to trust the wolves. His brothers were right and their mother was wrong. His teeth grits at the admission because let it be known, for all his intelligence, Arthur Kirkland will always be blinded by the amount of faith he has on his mother’s words.

_“She can’t always be right, Arthur.”_

_“What are you talking about, Alwyn?”_

_“Mother. She’s human too. She makes mistakes. And I think it’s high time you accept that.”_

_“Is this about the wolves again? It went well, Alwyn. They agreed to protect us.”_

_“I’m just saying… I don’t trust them. They may look human Arthur but we both know they’re not. Not anymore.”_

His brothers were kind enough not to utter the phrase ‘we told you so’ to his face after everything that happened. And maybe it was childish naivety, or stubbornness that made him deaf to his brothers’ reasoning. After all, the werewolves may be magical creatures but they barely have an active magical bone in their bodies making them so susceptible to spells and charms being unable to perform let alone defend against them.

_“They can defend us in a fight. A brawl. Take on monsters. But don’t expect them to have your back when the Fey actually decides to harm ye,” Alastair warns, a frown etched deep upon his features as he lectures Arthur about the pitfalls of having werewolves as guardians without a Plan B._

_“The Fey would not risk angering them. And besides, we are in good relations with the Fey.”_

“It’s amazing how things can change… how bonds sever and reform,” Matthew intrudes, catching him in his memories which seem to have materialized out of thin air. Arthur takes a moment to glance at his surroundings, he’s no longer in his cave but instead, in his old home. The scene between him and his brother seem to freeze before everything shifts and changes.

He’s back in his cave again, now sitting on his chair with Matthew drinking a cup of tea.  

“That was rude,” he remarks at Matthew’s sheepishness.

“It’s not my fault you decided to entertain a few stray memories. But I have to say, your brothers have a point. You should have known better than to trust the wolves, why we barely trust ourselves with each other as it is,” Matthew informs and adds, “The relationships in the magical world are volatile things. Most of the Fey are afraid of wolves but they are capable of taking them on if needed. The wolves do not fear the Fey but they are wary of starting fights with us. They do not wish to repeat a fight, nor do we.”

“Was the fight that bad?”

Matthew smiles, waving his hand and the scene around them shifts. They are in the woods, the moon is full and savage howls fill the night. Large hulking beasts with gaping sharp jaws sprinting across the lands.

“It was _terrible_. The infection was spreading and the Fey were too unprepared for them. We never saw such creatures. Creatures so strong. So fast. It took us time to comprehend what was happening and retaliate properly.”

Images of blood and gore. Screams and cries of the dying. Wolves dodging magical spells and tearing everything to shreds.

_Okay, maybe they’re not that useless against magic._

“We lost a lot of our kind that night. I lost my brother in it.”

A young elf appears, looking to be in his late teens. A bright smile with eyes like the sky. If one looks closely, they can see the striking family resemblance between the two.

“All this chaos… in one night.”

“Yes… I don’t suppose your books told you how the wolves were made?”

“They were made?” Arthur gapes, it is true, good and accurate books about magic are rather hard to find and even then, one could still detect some flaws or mistakes written amongst the text.

“Yes. They were originally a large tribe of nomadic _human_ hunters. Not much different on how they function today but let’s just say their chief though it would be a smart idea to play with a bit of black magic.” Matthew’s eyes narrow at him. “He thought he could harness the power of the wolf. He made a deal with a demon, asking for things like strength and resilience. But as we all know, everything comes with a price.”

“Insanity. Infection. Weakness against silver… the inability to perform magic…” Arthur enumerates as Matthew nods in confirmation.

“Back then, their poison was _potent_. A bite can turn anyone within minutes. How they didn’t manage to infect every human is a miracle.

“They were the ones that drove the Fey into hiding,” Arthur provides while Matthew stops to evaluate the statement.  

“In a way, yes. There is a reason why most Fey no longer like to linger within the human realm far too long. Even after you’ve provided those clarity charms, we are still wary of them. They may be magical creatures now but back then, they were an abomination. Once we got our bearings, we proceeded into corralling them. It was hard, even with an inkling of sanity, they were merciless.

The images change and shift into sounds. Rabid growls. High-pitched cries. Tear-stained Pleas. Arthur couldn’t help but cover his ears that the noise.

“Only when their leader was killed did they finally opened themselves up for peace talks. They asked for mercy. They weren’t in their right minds. The Fey granted it to them by using a very old and powerful purification spell,” Matthew explains, waving his hand to present Arthur the magic circle.

It was not as intricate as he had expected. None of the expected swirls and detailed edges. A simple circle with band of cursive runes at the edges.

“This was used to take out as much corruption as possible,” he adds, moving his fingers into a fist turning the circle around for the wizard.

“It looks familiar,” he mutters, trying to remember where he has seen it.

_**“I’m sorry.”** _

“That’s the circle. The spell that took away my magic,” he realizes as fragmentary flashbacks came to him. A bright flash of blue light spiraling before him.

“Not _exactly_. Francis modified it to suit his goals. This is a special circle and requires a special price.”

“What do you mean?”

“Normally, it is the performer who will suffer the magical backlash. But in this case…” he trails off, expecting Arthur to hazard a guess.

“It’s the one who receives the spell.”

“No. It’s both.”

“What do you mean both? They shared the cost? Is that possible?” he asks, clearly confused since he had never heard of the price of magic being shared.

“Of course. It is a very dangerous spell to be done alone but if done together, will make it possible. Just like your ancestors, instead of one person, they decided to balance the backlash out by distributing it to the whole clan.”

“A foolish decision.”

“Really? I find it rather wise. Your family was well-versed on the concept of magic as well as the possible ramifications of it being abused. Your family was powerful and corruption amongst your kin is an unfortunate expectation. Black magic was very rampant back then since there hadn’t been measures done to lessen it.”

“You know what I mean. They gave up magic. The cost is too much. It doesn’t make sense and due to that instability our family is still suffering backlashes,” he replies, ignoring the other’s hints on the illegality of black magic even on human terms.

“Did it ever occur to you that perhaps the price of magic is not enough to equal the purification process? And they technically didn’t literally give up the ability to do magic. It’s more along the lines of abstaining from it thus the amount of backlash. For all their intelligence they should have known better than to find loopholes in magic. But what’s done is done. Besides, the backlash barely affects you anymore… in fact, I don’t think it can affect you and your brothers anymore,” Matthew informs while Arthur just stiffens.

The information hits Arthur without warning. His chest tightens and his breathing quickens as his thoughts congeal and form one heart-breaking conclusion.

_Her efforts were unneeded._

**_“They offer protection, love.”_ **

Her smile. So sure. So determined to protect her family.

_She didn’t need to die. She didn’t need to make a charm as payment for protection._

“Arthur? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

No. He’s not. If this goes on he’ll start hyperventilating. His hands tightly gripping his chest while the other has a tight vice on his mouth and cheeks, muffling the chocked sobs of realizations threatening to escape.

_Don’t cry. Don’t you dare, Arthur._

He wills himself, firmly closing his eyes, ignoring the familiar pinpricks of tears lingering just at the edge of his eyes.

_No. Not in front of him._

He tries to take a deep breath and fails. He gasps and coughs, trying to slow the raging torrent of emotions upon him.

“I’m fine,” he croaks, finally succeeding to get a word out as his breathing starts to steady once more. His hands move away from him and settle back into his lap, all balled-up into fists with nails digging into his palms and the force turning his knuckles white.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he stresses, and tries to take the focus away from him, “the wolves, you were talking about the wolves, about that day.”

Matthew is smart enough to follow his topic of choice.

“On that day, the wolves gave up their rights to magic. None of their brethren can ever perform magic despite them being products of such. That is why they take a more neutral approach to magic. And just as the wolves gave up their magic, the Fey gave up some of theirs in turn,” Matthew supplies, waiting for his reply rather than confront him on his reaction. A welcome gesture in Arthur’s part for he has no desire to bare his grief to an elf of all things.

So his focus shifts – he can cry his eyes out later – trying to associate the given information with what happened in the past, he makes his conclusions clear.

“That is why the Fey are wary of the wolves, they have this innate thought of not being as strong as they used to be. And the wolves are so careful not to aggravate you is because they owe you their very existence.”

“A bird in hand is worth more in a bush. It was easier to let them go than to kill them off. After all, all that negative energy bottled up inside them has to go somewhere if we didn’t purify them,” Matthew nods, denying nothing.  

“And me?”

“It was a cruel punishment but not necessarily unfair. You should have known better than to delve into such dark magic,” Matthew responds, solidifying the reality that the boy elf is certainly not a boy.

_He’s practically ancient._

“I wasn’t going to use it,” he defends, not really in the mood to discuss the inner working of Elf Law and how they deem him guilty and unworthy of his magic because if he’s going to associate his acts with Human laws he can technically talk his way out considering how sparsely he’s dabbled in the Dark Arts and even if he did, it was more along the lines of gray magic. “I’m not discussing this with you,” he adds.

“Humans waste their time on the strangest things. You say you were not planning on using it… then why learn at all?” he asks, tilting his head to the side, violet eyes wide and curious.

“For knowledge… are the Elders _that_ frighten of me?” he counters instead.

“Yes. Humans are highly unpredictable and ambitious creatures… ” he pauses, as if waiting for a sharp retort.

“There is nothing wrong with ambition but I find it amusing that your Elders deem me enough of a threat,” he replies, leaning forward in interest while Matthew starts taking steps deeper into the cave. Or was the distance and space itself between them is growing shorter as the conversation lengthens.

_What happened to the table?_ He observes for he is once again seated on his chair with Matthew standing before from him.

“May I remind you that it took a very ambitious man and one black spell to create a pack of wild werewolves. It is not something we wish to risk let alone repeat. Besides, you _alone_ are not threat. But if with others, you are.”

“They think I’m gathering an army?!” he exclaims rising from his seat.

“An army of dead men. Wolves. Rebel fey. Many can join you willingly,” Matthew counts off and adds, “Which is why Francis decided to protect you by extracting your magic. The pain was a very unfortunate and unexpected side effect.”

“He did that to protect me?! From what?”

“A Sightless Arthur is better than a dead one.”

A curtain of silence passes between them as multitude of conclusions formulates in Arthur’s head. But one thing really stands out above it all, this can be grounds for a _war_. He realizes, suddenly wondering if he should inform the two of this because for all his anger towards the Elders, surely a magical war that could last _centuries_ would not be worth it.

“They planned on killing me but –”

“Francis beat them to it. Before the order was cast, Francis already performed the extraction deeming the allegations null and void. They cannot kill a powerless mortal. The source of harm is extinguished therefore, the verdict is lifted. The Elders just decided to use the extraction to cover up their previous decision.”

“I see…” his drifts off, trying to makes sense of Francis’ actions.

“He cares for you. Very much.”

Arthur scoffs in disbelief, it is like an ingrained response when it comes to Francis.

“How unfortunate, I do not return the gesture.” Sarcasm and ire rich in his tone was he rolls his eyes heavenward.

“Yes, how unfortunate indeed.”

He snaps and takes a step closer, his eyes burrow into those violet depths. The elf does not flinch. Perhaps, his bones are not as fragile as they seem to be.

“That look does not suite you. There is no surprise here. We barely agree on anything. We are more likely to fight and debate over inane things than actually act civil with each other.”

“You are strange friends.”

Arthur couldn’t have agreed more.

“I do not believe he cares that much,” he concludes.

“But he does!” Matthew shouts, surprising Arthur of its intensity.

“He cares in a different way,” Arthur concedes, but he remembers the portrait and the strange familiar pinpricks in his chest start up again.

_Yes, he cares. But not the way I wanted him to._

He sighs, quelling the bubbles of affection within him. Warm afternoons in the meadow. Silent conversations by the fire as their eyes meet. An exchange of smiles and haughty laughter. The memories come in pieces. Jagged and tiny. Barely recognizable but familiar in their presence.

_So much for uprooting the fragile infatuation._

“Francis cares for _you_ the most,” Matthew insists yet Arthur refuses to believe. He has seen Francis care. He has seen him pour his heart and soul with his grief. No, Arthur is not the one Matthew believes him to be.

“He cares for Joan. For you. For Gilbert and Antonio. Rarely for me.”

“He may care for them but do you think they are enough to make him happy? A dying elf, a lost girl, and two wolves?” Matthew questions.

“Everything makes the fool happy,” he snorts before eyeing up the way Matthew’s features scrunches up at mere mention of the two werewolves.

“You don’t like wolves very much do you,” he concludes.

“Their kind killed my brother. Whenever I see them, the memory of Alfred’s dead body resurfaces with sickening quality. I would never understand what Francis saw in them,” he admits, an uncharacteristic frown upon his gentle features.

“They have their perks. Overly friendly sometimes but they’re not that bad. But then again, I shouldn’t really be the one saying these things considering our current relations,” Arthur says, giving a clear implication to the dream walker.

_We’re not friends anymore. I understand their situations but I don’t trust them anymore._

And it’s not that Gilbert and Antonio didn’t try rebuilding things between them. It was more along the lines of Arthur pushing them away. He can no longer trust them. He didn’t _want_ to trust them. It took an angry Alastair for those two to actually understand that Arthur doesn’t want them in his life anymore.

_“You mutts screwed up. Mucked up your promise to us and our mother. And you expect forgiveness? Friendship as if nothing happened? Don’t be stupid,” he hisses, face livid from anger and indignation._

_“You mutts leave my brother alone. He’s made it clear he doesn’t want anything to do with you. Now, scat!” he bellows, throwing a handful of fire for emphasis._

“You never told them what Francis did. Why?”

“I find it pointless,” he shrugs, “why break friendships? I’m not going to be friends with them anymore so why bother on who’ll they’ll be friends with,” he explains.

The pain was so raw at that time that whenever he sees them an incredible wave of anger and bitterness just surges up to him. But now…

_Perhaps, time does heal such wounds._

“You don’t get lonely?”

“No. Not really. I’ve always preferred solitude. The Fey, they had been great acquaintances, I even made some good friends, not that I can see them now… and it’s not like I’m completely alone. I have my brothers… and a few people in the village… ” he trails off, remembering dancing lights and tiny sounds of laughter beginning to be replaced by more human forms.

“I see… that’s good. I guess.”

“What’s with that look?” he asks watching as an air of discontent and frustration seem to linger upon the elf’s features.  

“You may not believe this but, Francis is happiest when he is with you. He may not have admitted it but it became quite apparent when you left to study your magic with the centaurs.”

The memory comes a bit clearer and more in detail.

_“You’re going somewhere?” Francis asks, startling him while the elf leans casually on the doorway._

_“Yes, there is this tribe of centaurs –”_

_“Centaurs are dangerous.”_

He is not wrong. Centaurs are highly territorial volatile and violent creatures. Rub them the wrong way or do something stupid and one would find them being hunted down or trampled upon by the very offended creatures.

_“I have an offering. And besides, they’re an old but small herd. I’ll be fine,” he shrugs it off, more focused on stuffing his traveling bag to the brim with empty scrolls, and candles._

_“I see. How long will you be playing with your horses then?”_

_“I don’t know. It takes time to earn their trust. Probably a year or more. Why?” he answers, looking up from his task to see them elf wearing a stiff smile._

_“N-Nothing. I-I should go.”_

_“Oh. Well, goodbye then,” he says, briefly considering on confronting the elf for his upset but brushes it off, elves and centaurs never really mix._

“You don’t have to believe me. Sometimes, actions speak louder than words,” Matthew says as the memory fades before him.

“If that is true, then he truly must not care for me. He was willing to abandon whatever relationship we had. It must not have meant much,” he muses, refusing to confront the very possibility of Francis actually caring for him more than he thought possible because confronting that would force Arthur to confront a lot of stunted and buried feelings that he had long thought to have forgotten.

“I disagree. To willing abandon what little relation you have and be hated by your most important person… it says a lot don’t you think?” Matthew counters, twists the words into his liking and before Arthur can formulate a reply, he exclaims, “Oh! The dream is ending... I must go now…”

“What? Wait, Matthew –” Arthur teaches for whatever little distance there is between them only to see a large chasm in its place. He calls out once more only to meet the soft light of wakefulness.

In the muted softness of morning light, Arthur makes a choice.

 

* * *

 

 

Alastair Kirkland is not pleased. It is a much expected considering Arthur came in the early morn like a wild man thumping on the door with a rapid pacing akin to a woodpecker. Now, let it be known that he doesn’t see anything wrong with his runt of a sibling coming home for a visit. In fact, he encourages it, to keep a bit of civilization in the boy’s lungs before he slinks away into isolation once more.

_“Ya need to get out more lad.”_

_“That’s rich coming from you.”_

_“Believe it or not, I actually have friends. **Human** friends. I don’t hide away in a cave like **somebody** I know.”_

_“Just because I prefer a bit of solitude doesn’t mean I do not have friends. I’m trying okay. It’s just a bit harder than I expected…”_

It is an established fact that Arthur does not trust easily therefore, the issue with the wolves did nothing to aid in lessening it. But over the years, after losing his magic, he noticed his little brother finally reaching out to the human world. Arthur may not notice it but if Alastair and Alwyn can see the change slowly making itself known.

He comes over more often. He talks to the townspeople, jokes around with the blokes in the pub, offer up a helping hand to some bonnie lass along the road. Arthur’s finally getting his bearings and living his life outside of the Fey. And it is not that he dislikes the Fey or anything, he understands that their rules aren’t the most logical and some unfortunate humans tend to fall into it from time to time.

So when he and Alwyn find a Sightless Arthur moaning drunk in a pub, his first reaction was anger. Not towards the Fey but towards the wolves because it’s technically their jobs. And even if they couldn’t interfere with a verdict, the least they could have done was stall it or something.

_Stupid mutts._

They had warned Arthur in placing too much trust in the wolves and how those creatures are technically powerless against stronger forms of spells and hexes.

_But did he listen? No. Stubborn thick-headed brat._

They also advised him against in dabbling in black magic because that kind of magic is dangerous not only for the caster but also those around him. They had warned him that such knowledge could aggravate more than a few people.

_“It’s illegal,” Alwyn states, brows furrow with his mouth a grin thin line while Arthur stands there refusing to listen._

_“No. It’s not. Studying the concepts of dark magic is not illegal. **Performing** it is.”_

_“Arthur, don’t be an idiot. Black magic is dangerous. People get threatened with that kind of stuff. And knowing you, you’ve done more than just **study** it,” he reproaches and the youngest scoff, dismissing their claims._

_“It’s just magic, Alastair. I’m not going to **really** use it,” Arthur assures, but both brothers already know the implications of his statement. He would try out little black spells. Conjure demons and draw magic circles. Out of curiosity, experiments. Nothing **too** life threatening._

_“Just be careful,” he sighs, knowing just how stubborn Arthur is with these types of things._

Another known fact about is brother is that Arthur views knowledge as something that everyone should have access to. He is also very immature when admitting his mistakes hence the repeated times of Alwyn and he trying to talk some sense into Arthur with little success.

_“Knowledge may be free. But it still holds power. And such power can be dangerous in the wrong hands.”_

It is a lesson they continue to try and drill into that hard head of his because old habits die hard and he can still catch his brother browsing through the spell books and old scrolls to refresh his memory. Neither of them stops him, for everyone deals with loss differently and it would be foolish of them to rush their sibling into recovery.

So, yes. He likes it when Arthur visits. Especially, social calls where the three of them find a table at the pub and have a drinking session there. Talking about life and philosophies. Talk about childhood and the past. They mention magic from time to time, and it soothes his worry heart to see the pain in Arthur’s eyes lessen with each passing year.

However, he does prefer it if his idiot sibling come at a more favorable time. Like around in the afternoons after Alastair gets into a more favorable mood because he rarely gets rest days and he much prefers to sleep in on them.    

Therefore, Alastair Kirkland is not pleased and no one can really fault him for it. Especially with the way Arthur is looking at him beseechingly.

“I _know_ that look. I do not _like_ that look,” he remarks, eyeing up the annoyingly bright-eyed sibling, trying to block out the memories of Arthur proposing harebrained schemes.    

“Al –”

_Oh, gods! He’s even using that **voice** on me._

The voice, possibly a strange trait only ingrained in the runts of the family as a defense mechanism to make their older siblings actually pay attention to them and entertain whatever it is their thinking. It took him years to build up immunity against it. It really helped when Arthur finally grew into those big watery eyes of his, made him less convincing.

“Don’t you Alastair me!” he warns before settling down back into his table while Arthur fidgets from across. He heaves a big heavy sigh in preparation, “Go ahead, and tell me this scheme of yours.”

For a moment, Arthur stares at him like he has grown another head.

“You’re not going to try to convince me to –”

“Boy, I have a better chance teaching pigs to fly than convince you that whatever that this you have in your head is a bad idea,” he scoffs, crossing his arms while Arthur bites his bottom lip. An action which Alastair usually associates with nervousness and the possibility of him not liking this one bit.  

“It _is_ a bad idea,” Arthur points out.

“The fact that you agree that it _is_ a bad idea does not help your case,” he remarks, eyes narrowing as the cogs in his head began turning.

“What, you’re going to tie me up to a tree again?” Arthur deadpans.

“No. We’re gonna just tie ye up to a post down the cellar. So this better be good. Ye have 10 seconds,” he declares, slamming a hand on the table giving Arthur a start.

“What? I can’t –”

“Alwyn, the rope!” he calls out.

“Way ahead of you! Just toss him down when you have enough of his stupidity!” Alwyn hollers back making a nice sharp grin curl upon the man’s features.  

“Oh, come on!” Arthur exasperates and he was more than happy enough to do a countdown.

“Five. Four.”

“FrancisgotsacrificedtotheNorthenDragonandI’mgoingtohelpthewolvessavehim.”

A beat.

A silent pause.

Just enough time for him to figure out what in the world did his idiot of a brother just said.

“Again. Slowly this time,” he commands before barking out for Alwyn to come up and join them.

It takes him a while to take everything in. Arthur was apparently approached by a pair of stupid suicidal wolves and decided to bribe their brother by returning his stolen magic back. How they managed to obtain it in the first place is a mystery because surely two werewolves without any magical capability could not have been able to steal such a carefully guarded item.

_An inside job maybe?_

He pushes the thought for later and focuses on the topic at hand. Now, he has no bad blood about Francis, especially after hearing Arthur’s conversation with the dream walking elf. But he doesn’t like it when emotions come into play because Arthur is stupid with emotions. He’s even stupider when it comes to social cues due to extensive exposure to the Fey and their ways and becomes a bit clueless when it comes to defining his own emotions.

_Like his crush on the damn elf for example._

A crush that apparently festered and bloomed like wild mushroom overnight because for all his faults and stupidity, Arthur Kirkland is the type of person that rarely truly lets go of things and that includes feelings of love and affection.

He just hopes that sense of affection does not extend to the wolves because he refuses to deal with another deluded Arthur. Sure, they can be friends if his brother wants to, but if his brother’s stupid enough to actually trust those creatures with his safety again, he’ll be the first one to set the idiot straight.

_Wolves, be damned._

“Okay, let’s say you _do_ succeed. What then?” he bites, he is considering it but the apparent lack of response from Arthur makes his temper snap up once more.

“Dammit Arthur! We’re not starting a magical war with the Elves!” he declares.

“We are _not_ starting a war,” Arthur stresses.

“Sure sounds like it. They tried to get you _killed_. The werewolves are a few statements away from getting involved. The Elves are probably hunting you down right this instant.”

“You’re being overdramatic, those two acted outside of their pack therefore they are technically not representing their kind’s intentions in this. If this ever goes belly-up, only those two will take the fall. They wolves would not risk a war and neither will the Elves since they know that some of the Fey would actually join the werewolves in this. And besides, I have a plan,” Arthur berates, insisting that there is a sliver of logic in all this and not some vain love-fueled attempt that spells tragedy for both parties.

“Let’s hear it then,” Alwyn says, ever the kind soul as Arthur takes it as a sign to explain his plans. Plans that apparently involved a lot of risks. A lot of magic and a lot of stupidity.

_And they say, he’s the smart one._

“No. It’s stupid,” he declares, ignoring the crestfallen face of hopelessness before him.

“Alastair, I actually disagree,” Alwyn counters eliciting a wave of shock in the room.

“Alwyn, no. You’re supposed to be the voice of reason here!”

“And I find it quite a reasonable plan. Just a _bit_ risky,” he replies, trying to pacify him while Arthur’s eyes just practically beams with hope.

_A **bit**._

“A _bit_. Are you even hearing yourself? We’re trying to dupe a bunch of elves that are practically pushing their second millennia,” he snaps.

“You know, I find it interesting that the madder he is, the more articulate he sounds,” Arthur comments, clearly satisfied to find an ally in this.

“I know right. The accent he picked up during his time in the mountains just drops right off,” Alwyn agrees, and for a moment Alastair’s vision turns red.

“I’m right here!” he shouts, startling both siblings who are now looking at him expectantly.

“So… you can’t do it?” Arthur asks.

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? Of course, I can. I’m just worried that you’ve overestimated the amount of arrogance they have in their heads,” he replied with every bit of confidence he is entitled to.

“I didn’t.”

_Yes, Arthur. Because you are such a great judge of character._

“Okay, when do you need it?” he asks instead, ignoring whatever barbs are coating his tongue. Arthur purses his lips, almost hesitant to give the deadline.

_Oh, **now** he looks unsure._

“Tonight?”

“Toni –” He takes a deep calming breath before declaring, “You owe me. Forget selling your soul to a demon, I own you now so you better come back from this alive, you hear?”

“Such encouragement from you brother dear,” he says earning a nice hard smack to the head.

“ _Ow_ , Alwyn!” Arthur whines.

“Enough of your sass. You have wolves to find.”

 

* * *

 

 

Alwyn watches Arthur’s silhouette fades into the distance before he turns his gaze back towards to Alastairs grim face.

“I know you don’t like this. Neither do I. But –”

“But he’ll do it anyway with or without our help so we might as well give a hand right?” Alastair cuts him off while giving him this tired look which he could only respond with a nod, ”Yeah, figured as much,” he grouses, raising up from his chair and going towards his workshop. He pauses just by the entrance to ask, “What do you _really_ think Alwyn?”

He waits for them to get inside, Alastair picking out materials while he goes to the rummage through his brother’s herb supply, before voicing his thoughts, “I think that those wolves are idiots and how dare they use Arthur’s magic as leverage. Asking him to destroy it if he disagrees of all things. That’s cruel and not to mention, manipulative.”

Alastair pauses from his search and eyes him up, contemplative and hesitant, “While we do share the same sentiments about those mutts, I have to disagree with the magic thing. Yes, they shouldn’t have made it as leverage but offering Arthur the chance to destroy it himself is pretty much a mercy.”

Alwyn’s brows rose in surprise. He expects a lot of things from Alastair whenever it concerns the werewolves, but he never expects something like this. It frustrates him a little, for Alastair to think that Arthur needs to destroy his ties with magic to move on in life, “Arthur does not need to destroy his magic to move on, Alastair. He’s been doing fine until now. Sure, it’s slow but he’s working through it.”

“It’s not about him moving on but it’s more along the lines of offering him a chance to take something away from the Elves. No one can _truly_ destroy one’s magic except one’s self. That’s the rule. And it’s a good thing Arthur managed to stop Gilbert from breaking the container or we’ll be dealing with a trouble if all that magic gets released,” Alastair states reminding Alwyn of Gilbert’s stupid stunt.

“But with the right charm and spell, those Elves have the capability of harnessing that magic for themselves. Better to destroy it yourself than to let those Elves have it,” he reasons while Alywn scoffs, dumping a few selected sprigs into his basket before turning to his brother.

“If they planned of harnessing Arthur’s magic when why is it still intact?” he asks, forgetting about the herbs for a while and waits for his brother’s response.  

“Harnessing another’s magic takes time and comes with a lot of risks. Especially if they are from a different type. Human magic is different from Fey magic. And you know how Fey are, they are easily distracted and their concept of time is different from us. There’s also the fact that they consider Human magic below theirs, so no matter how powerful it is, they’ll see it more as a last resort.” Alastair reasons, half of his body already buried deep into a large chest of tomes and scrolls.

“So you think that they’re saving it for something?”

A loud sneeze erupts and Alwyn bites down the urge to remind him to clean up, “Bloody dust mites,” Alastair sniffs, rubbing is nose as he dumps a bunch of scrolls on the table before turning his attention to him, “If Arthur is correct about how arrogant they are with their magic then they’ll most likely forget about it after a decade or so.”

“And if he’s wrong?”

“Then we’re in for a very long ride,” Alastair heaves a heavy sigh.

“That we are,” he agrees, “It doesn’t help that we wizards can technically live almost as long as an average elf if we don’t do anything stupid with our health.”

“Living as long as an elf is pushing it. Maybe a werewolf. But then again, we can’t all be that balanced like you Alwyn,” Alastair eyes him up and he couldn’t help but puff up a little because out of the three, he’s always been better in controlling his magic. If one wants firepower and speed, they go to Arthur. Endurance and some good hands, Alastair is the one for the job. But him, it’s all about control and precision.

“Mother always said that there is a price and I’m just smart enough to balance my magic to prevent any unneeded backlashes. Seriously, if there is anything you and Arthur have in common, it is your risky behaviors concerning magic,” he lectures which Alastair predictable rolls his eyes in exasperation.

“I manage my magic just fine, Alwyn. I’m a charms maker, I balance out the price with my materials just as you balance your magic with herbs and elixirs. It’s Arthur who we should worry about.”

“Yeah, but he’s a smart lad. I haven’t seen him deal with much backlash, unless you count the bunny incident, where he made it worse by trying to fix it instead of going to you to undo it,” he reminds which Alastrair quickly replies.

“The boy had it coming. Besides, we all got a nice laugh out of that one.”

“Yeah, I never heard mum laughed so hard her sides ached after,” he chuckles in memory of them dealing with their brother’s little bunny ears incident.

“Speaking of mum... do you think Arthur realized it by now?”

“That her sacrifice has been technically a waste? I think so... I mean, any experienced wizard can sense magical backlash, especially the long-term ones if they take time to go over it,” his brows furrow, and wonders. He and Alastair rarely study their magic together after their mother passed since their study schedules barely match up, and it was just one of those rare days where they discovered that wizards can technically measure the amount of backlash still affecting them.

It is a tedious process that involves a lot of time and patience. A miracle considering how bad Alastair is with meditation and spiritual magic. Arthur was away with the centaurs that day and both wondered if it were a good idea to tell him but Arthur just kept on jumping from place to place and whenever they had a chance to talk, a different topic sprouted before it could be mentioned.

_How does one say to his brother that their mother died for a useless death?_

And then Arthur lost his magic, and they simply cannot give him anymore grief or fuel to his hate.

“Well, we both kinda realized it by accident when we were studying on the subject but Arthur has never been much of a fan of the theories on the consequences of magic and he is more interested on looking for ways on preventing it. What bought this on anyways?” he asks.

“It’s just that I’ve nothing he seems hesitant on telling us something. I just thought that could be it,” Alastair mutters, opening up a scroll.

“I see... well... it could also be him trying to tell us that he’s kinda doing this whole rescue thing to have some emotional closure with a certain elf.”

“Hm... knowing him he’ll more likely tackle the issue of our dead mother than talk about matters of the heart.”

“True,” he nods, mind already elsewhere as he focuses on the herbs once more.

“So, what else do you need? I know I’m severely lacking on the herbs department,” Alastair asks, watching work his way through the rather limited options before him.

“Yes, but it’s not like I can’t just go to my shed to get what we need. But we do need to work out how to stop our brother from killing himself.”

“Let’s start with how we’re going to make sure his magic doesn’t kill him first,” Alastair sighs, which is really happening a lot today. Alwyn nods and starts doing is own research, noting down the herbs he’ll need for later. He eyes the list, shifting his gaze to his pondering brother across him. He releases his own heavy sigh and makes a silent wish.

_I hope this plan of yours works, Arthur._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are and always will be nice to hear. ^_^


	3. The Sacrifice

They travel in silence. Nothing but the heavy clomp of horses' hooves and the tiny creaking of the carriage's wooden wheels as they go forth towards the Northern Borders.

His stomach tight with fear while his heart heavy with resignation. Francis takes a peek through the thin curtains that can barely shield one from the elements. The winds are harsh and the cold, sharp and biting. He takes a drink from the wine bottle in search of some form of warmth.

Two knocks.

Everything freezes as he feels something in him coil. His breathing hitches.

It is time.

He exits the carriage, his boots crunch against the stones and dirt. He faces his companions, back straight and eyes ahead, ignoring how his knees quiver at the dark swirl of black fog and miasma.

He forces his legs to move. One step at a time. His silent companions merely watch him. Eyes so full of pity and resignation. He stops, mere inches away from the barrier and turns back towards the two elves tasks to oversee his final moments in the world of light.

They give him a nod as they begin distancing themselves. Away from him. Away from the tainted land. Away from death.

He takes an orb from his pockets. It is a tiny thing made of enchanted gold and possibly iron ore for he can feel a slight tingling in his hand upon contact. He raises his arm, throwing the orb against the barrier as tiny gold flecks of light eat away the wall of magic and before he could even comprehend, his body was pulled into the dark abyss where a black dragon with gleaming eyes of bright blue fire welcomes him with a deafening roar.

And as the creature approaches, he cannot help but allow his mind to wander. Maybe it is because of fear. Or perhaps, an inkling of hope followed by a silent wish. For his thoughts return to the past, a place of refuge and nightmares.

**_four years prior_ **

Francis bolts up from bed with memories of screaming echoing in his mind. Loud cries of agony as the image of Arthur's body twists and contorts into sharp stiff angles before him while he just stands there motionless like a statue. And all the while, his mind, screams and panics.

_No! No! No!_

_This wasn't supposed to happen!_

"No," he whispers, shuddering as he clutches the furs around him tighter suddenly feeling very cold and very alone in his bed.

"Francis?"

Perhaps, _not_ so alone.

"Matthew," he acknowledges, fingers slowly loosening their grip as he turns his attention to the other end of the room with nothing but a magical screen to separate them. "I apologize, did I wake you?" he asks, watching the screen of magic dissolve between them. Thin ice-like layers peeling away like morning frost upon his command.

_"You don't need to do this." Violet eyes look at him, insisting how he should have a room of his own along with the silent message of 'I'll be fine'._

_"Nonsense, it's fine. If something happens, I'm just a call away," he assures, telling the fellow elf that it was no trouble at all._

Which is true, he has no grave qualms with Matthew. He was pleasant and interesting company even before Joan was chosen. Aside from being a dreamwalker, Matthew's experience as a formal illuminator of their kind paved way to a lot of insights and opinions Francis never really thought to consider.

Thoughts that can be so old-fashioned yet at the same time quite radical in their phrasings.

_"What is it like? Dreaming. Do you travel to distant lands like I?"_

_"Try different worlds and eras. And before you ask, no. I will not tell you. They bear no value for you."_

_"Come now, surely there is something you can tell me," he urges._

Matthew has always been quite silent about his dreams. Yes, the Elders are well aware of his abilities but as he has explained multiple times, he does not see things within this realm.

_Matthew looks at him, contemplative and silent. He shifts and pauses, as if in deep thought. He speaks._

_"It's quite hard to explain really. But, from what I've gathered... every world, is different. Yet the souls remain to be the same. They are molded differently but the cores are unaltered. You are different, yet at the same time, still you. Does that make sense?" he asks while Francis purses his lips in deep thought._

_"A bit."_

_"You should not waste your attention on such things Francis. Like I've said, it does not affect you."_

_"And you?"_

Francis, being a curious soul, decides to take advantage of Matthew's rare openness on the subject. Matthew's dreamwalking had always entranced Francis and he would continually try to engage Matthew about it. However, Matthew always seems to turn the conversation around with other interesting topics supplied by the books he had read, and Francis knew well enough not to try and force the conversation on him.

So, he did not really expect a straight answer from the dreamwalker back then.

_"Me? Well, aside from the much expected toll on my health... they are interesting in their own way. I've met different people with such strange and interesting ways... sometimes, dreams can be such great adventures," he smiles, wistful in memory before deciding to shift the conversation into another direction which Francis had (once again) unwillingly conceded._

Matthew prefers to tell tales of the past – delving deeper into events that seemed so foreign even for him. Francis in turn relates his experiences and how the world had changed since then. Together, they've become good friends. Which only solidified his promise to Joan that day.

_"Joan, no!"_

_"Francis, it is done. You must accept what –"_

_"Nonsense, I'll take your place," he declares only to be silenced by one solid look of reproach._

_"Joan, please," he pleads only to receive a sad smile turn._

_She leans in, whispering 'I love you's and one final request._

_"Take care of Uncle Matthew for me."_

And he did. He limited his travels, toned down his merry making escapades and started spending more time within the Fey realm. Over the centuries, Matthew and he learned to cope and comfort each other's grief and loneliness.

Which is why he refused Matthew's suggestion that he stays in the spare room because the only room free in the cozy two-story house was hers.

There are some instances (getting rarer as the years pass), he could still feel her presence lingering behind the door. Especially on certain nights when struck by nostalgia, he succumbs to the memory of her once more and opens more than a few bottles of wine and cry the night away.

_Just for a night. Allow me to cry._

So he stands there, behind the door, and picture her standing just at the other side, as if waiting for his return after his long travels, nights full of stories and warms embraces. Soft kisses shared in between.

_"Francis, I - "_

_"Hush, it's fine."_

_"But -"_

_"You do not need to do anything. You are uncomfortable, I will not force you nor make you feel you obligated to do this."_

_"I am to be your bonded."_

_"That you are, and I am never more thankful to the Great Mother for blessing me with you."_

_"Flattery."_

_"Truth."_

Such precious moments. Such bittersweet fragments of the past that have marked his heart forever.

Time heals all wounds they say, but they never said how long would it take before the festering wounds would fade into deep dark scars. Nor would they ever say when such scars would actually fade.

_"Everyone heals differently. Some, not all," Matthew says to him one silent melancholy night._

And back then, when his grief was strong and fresh, he could not help but wonder if he is amongst those who are unable to heal and move on. Forever cursed to bear the burden of a broken heart.

_"This is my room. It used to be my parents'. Well… my father's to be exact… my mother passed away when I was barely a week old."_

He remembers it still, the day Joan decided to give him the house tour. Stray red ribbons by the small vanity in the far corner. A pile of books and maps on the desk just by the open window with an inkwell. A neat wide bed full of pillows and a gray plush toy with big black eyes sporting long thin appendages for arms and legs. A chest and a wardrobe possibly full of other knickknacks and clothing.

_"I used to sleep in Uncle Matthew's room… but as I grew older…" she trails off in her explanations, catching the direction of his gaze._

_"That's Tony," she introduces, "My father tried making me a doll and well… let's just say he wasn't the best in making toys. I cried the first time I saw it. It looked so strange… never seen anything quite like it," she tells eyes growing wistful and heavy._

Like many amongst their kind, Joan lost her father when the wolves attacked. Like her, her father was a warrior stationed at the front and like the fate of most warriors, he died in the battlefield.

He remembers watching her bright blue eyes shadowed with grief, a tiny furrow at her brows, as if trying to recall a long faded face and smile. There was a brief moment where Francis wondered how it would have felt to grow up with at least one parental figure.

He was an orphan after all, grew up within the care of a group of travelling Faern (elves of entertainment and arts) who found him hidden in a bush. He grew up with a band of bards and minstrels that took pity on a lost child crying for his possibly dead parents.

Yes, they took great care of him, taught him the basics of fending for himself, how to hunt and set up camp, how to live a life on the road, they taught him dances, stories, and songs to sing. However, sometimes, he couldn't help but wonder about his roots.

Contrary to popular belief, elves never were a systematic bunch (the Fey rarely are), they only adopted the practice of taking down names and records after the wolves where they needed to know how many of their kind remained. The areas where elves lived were more scattered, some even preferring to live in the mortal realm unlike now, where they've decided to abandon the mortal realm and build their stronghold within their own world with the Elders at their center.

Therefore, it is much expected, that no matter how much they wanted to perfect it, their records are sure to contain more than a few blanks.

_"It took some coaxing before I warmed up to it… my Father was very happy when he saw me playing with it… he always did have such a great smile… but enough about me, let's talk about you, Francis," she declares, turning her attention to him and away from such distant bittersweet memories._

So he talked, whisked her away with stories of his own adventures in the mortal world and how he befriended many creatures during his travels as a Gatherer (seekers and messengers, a bridge between the Fey and the mortal realm, they function as traders, explorers, spies and informants). He spun tales of the lands he's seen along with the knowledge gathered. He skips along the memories and moments, shying from the faded flashes of himself searching for his own history only to come up with nothing.

That was why he took up the role of a Gatherer instead of joining his place amongst the Faern after all. He was found outside therefore, it is possible for his parents might be residing outside as well and what better excuse to go snooping around than to be a Gatherer. However, after a decade of searching, it was clear that it was an empty venture.

His parents were lost to him.

He continued on with recalling the colors and songs sung around the squares and halls. He mimicked the dances, lightly taking her hands as he twirled her around like a child. He smiles and she laughs. The rest of the afternoon was spent lying on the grass waiting for the sky to tint into dark indigo and sparkle with stars.

So the centuries pass and the room remains, to this day, locked full of memories of a girl long gone. Besides, it was a nice compromise, Matthew's room was quite large and moving an extra bed didn't really pose a problem for them.

_"There, all done," he declares, fluffing up the last pillow before turning to Matthew who was wearing an amused smile, "thoughts?" he asks._

_"I was just thinking… it's been a long time since I've shared this room with someone," he answers and adds, "don't think too much of it, though, I must warn you I can have some very restless nights."_

Little did he know, that Francis' own restless nights would come centuries after in the form of heartbreak and guilt, it has been almost a year since he had taken Arthur's magic and until now, he is haunted by the extraction.

He can never forget the screams. Agonized wails of anguish that seems to be piercing him to the very core. For a moment, he thought the silencing charm he had placed around the area wouldn't be enough to hold such intensity.

But it held. Unexpectedly so. None but he had heard. None but he would remember.

_"Kill me! Kill me, now! End me! Please! Mercy, I beg of you!"_

"Francis?" Matthew ventures out, taking slow cautious steps towards his side of the room until he reaches the edge of the bed and he seats himself beside Francis.

"I'm fine," he says, perhaps a bit too short and quick to actually convince the dreamwalker of his claims.

"You can't sleep," Matthew concludes, highly aware of the many nights where his is haunted by terrible dreams of the past.

"Nonsense, just a bit of a rough night," he dismisses, leaning further into his pillows with a sigh.

"An understatement, maybe you should try a sleeping draught," Matthew suggests, possibly eyeing the dark circles starting to form around his eyes.

"Maybe... I'll see a Healer about it tomorrow," he concedes, the troubled nights have grown more frequent over the months and it's taking an obvious toll on his health.

"Your illness is not only of the mind but of the heart. You worry too much," Matthew sighs, reaching out, tracing the shadows and lines around his eyes.

"How can I not? He almost sold his soul to a demon if I haven't been there... If I didn't decide to check on him..." his voice catches at the memory. Several months ago. A circle drawn by blood on the forest ground and hungry dark shadows lurking at the edges of darkening crimson.

Maybe it was the blood loss. Or perhaps the total loss of his Sight that Arthur did not see the shadows curl upon him. A dark misshapen form of a beast with cat-like golden eyes. A being wrapped in darkness permeating the air with rot and death crouching just at the circle's edge.

_"Away from him!" he commands and the creature hisses like a thousand serpents._

_"You have no business here elf," the Thing speaks, shrill and grating to his ears. Suddenly baring its great big teeth, tinged with an ugly brown and dripping with saliva._

_"I said, away! He does not belong to you!" his voice is stronger, louder, unshaken as the thought of protecting Arthur echoes like a gong._

_The Thing snarls. He sneaks a glance at Arthur, still muttering black spells making the beast preen in delight._

_"Are you deaf? Listen to him plead. Listen to him beg," It smiles, nothing but eyes and teeth._

_"Silence! You are nothing but a parasite! Feeding off desperation and pain! And you will leave him alone," he declares, suddenly brandishing a dagger in his hands._

_"You dare fight me elf? In such a state?" the Thing says with a bellowing laugh, "you are not strong enough to banish me!"_

_His heart lurches in his chest. How did the creature know of his weakened state? Is it truly that apparent upon him? Can everyone see that his magic is no longer as strong as it used to be?_

_"You underestimate me creature," he growls, squashing down the rushing dread that threatens to encase him as he starts a spell making the creature flinch._

_"You are lying! Such a spell is forbidden amongst your kind. You are not a mortal priest. You do not have the power!" It shrieks, stepping away from him as he continues to recite the mortal incantation._

_He stares at the creature as if daring him to risk it._

_It didn't._

_With an angry scream it fell back into the shadows finally leaving their presence. It was only when sunlight finally started peaking through the trees did he finally relax because the Thing was right, he is no priest, nor does he have the power to cast away demons._

_If the Thing had decided to enter Arthur's circle and seal a pact, he'd be helpless to stop it._

_And once again, I will just be left there standing helpless once more._

_So he listens to Arthur cry as if his whole world is crumbling right before him while Francis slumps down the wet ground and releases a harrowing breath of relief with a silent wish that such desperation will never ever come to haunt Arthur's thoughts once more._

"But you were there. And that is what truly matters. Arthur is safe. His _soul_ is safe _,_ " Matthew stresses, holding him by the shoulders, turning him away from the past and into the present.

"Yes, but -" he protests.

_What if he tries it again?!_

"He will heal," Matthew states with a conviction that makes his nerves prickle.

"You do not know that! You did not see him. You did not see how broken he was," he cries out as the memories return to him once more with horrifying clarity.

Matthew was not there to see Arthur cry his eyes out.

He was not there as Arthur brayed out drunken curses of spite and hate.

He was not there to find a complete stranger in the place of someone once so strong and unbreakable.

_I did that. I hurt him. I made him this way._

"Would you have rather let them kill him then?" The conversation shifts and suddenly he finds himself feeling guilty for snapping at Matthew who was only trying to comfort him.

"No! It's just that..."

"You did the only possible option back then. You can't escape or hide away like a pair of lovers nor can you try and convince the Elders out of their decision. They're too stubborn for that. He is a strong person, Francis. You shouldn't underestimate him so," Matthew states as Francis huffs out a tired sigh, burrowing deeper into his pillows.

"You sound so sure of this..." he says, turning to Matthew who suddenly seemed to look hesitant, as if debating a very important decision.

"I..." he begins, only to pause, searching Francis' face for something before he takes a deep breath and continues with an emphasis Francis did not miss, "I had a dream about _your_ Arthur."

"A dream," Francis clarifies, eyes slightly narrowing, "I thought you do not have such dreams -" he stops and gasps in realization, "if the Elders find out."

"It was but a mere coincidence. A rare thing to occur but possible nonetheless," he assures, cutting off whatever possible tirade of concern Francis was about to sprout. "Just like how I managed to overhear them discussing their plans within the dark confines of the Great Library while I was looking for a book," he adds in reminder.

"You were lucky they did not catch you," Francis nods, clearly recalling the time he caught Matthew wheezing upon the doorway as he reports the Elder's plans.

_"Francis!" Matthew calls out, leaning against the study door wheezing._

_"Matthew! What happened?! Are you all right? Great Mother, you look horrible," he remarks, helping Matthew settle on the couch._

_"Arthur is in danger."_

_"What?!"_

_"They're planning to kill him. He's become a threat. He's too powerful. His influence... the black magic..."_

"That I am. However, I fear they might suspect me, aside from our connection, there is the fact that only few beings even bother to venture within the older parts of the library."

"What _were_ to you looking for?" Francis asks.

"An old story book. Nothing special. I just wanted to indulge in a bit of light reading," Matthew shrugs, also starting to burrow into Francis thick soft pillows.

"I see... And Arthur? He is fine?" he asks, doubt coloring his tone but at the same time, a flutter of hope and relief.

"He is healing. Not as angry or bitter as you've seen him," Matthew assures.

"And you've talked to him... in the future," he clarifies.

"About five years ahead... not too far along really... but, he is human. They perceive time differently from us. He is young too, even for a wizard. He and his brothers are still living within their time. Give it a few decades and they will begin to see things differently. Well... for his brothers at least considering he's..."

"What did you talk about?" he interrupts, he has no desire to delve into the intricacies of aging and magic. He does not need another reminder that he will lose Arthur in a few decades. He does not need that right now.

"A lot of things. He is a curious thing... interesting too," Matthew says with a small smile upon his lips.

"That he is..." he agrees, with a smile of his own curling on his lips (he rarely finds reason to smile these days) "He must hate me for stealing his magic," he concludes with a bitter grimace.

"He thinks that you do not care for him," Matthew informs as Francis feels something akin to a blade twist (sharp and deep) in his chest.

"He thinks that you do not value him..." Matthew adds and inch by inch the blade goes deeper, "that he is a mere acquaintance... a foolish thought. I was more than willing to correct his misconceptions." he adds making Francis bolt up in surprise.

"You told him?!"

"Yes, is there something wrong?" Matthew asks.

"Why?!"

"Do you not desire for your feelings to be conveyed?" Matthew's brows furrow in confusion.

"At what point? He cannot see me nor feel my presence," he declares, reminding Matthew of the painful truth. The truth which most Fey have tried to hide from mortals. That, certain abilities of the Fey rely heavily on the human perception. If a mortal cannot see or feel them then that mortal will have certain immunity against their mischief. Leaving those who are more sensitive or aware of their presence as easier targets.

He remembers it clear as day, when he was young and he asked an old Faern why he could not touch some mortals.

_"This is to keep balance between the two realms. Sightless mortals cannot enter our realm just as we Fey cannot easily harm those who are powerless. However, I find it best that mortals know nothing of this law."_

_"So they can fear us?"_

_"We want them to be cautious of us. It will not do well if they realize how limited our reach can be. Remember, Francis. Mortals can be just as dangerous as the Fey if given the chance."_

"He can forgive you. Openness leads to understanding. Understanding leads to forgiveness," Matthew answers sagely.

"It would not change anything," he scoffs, a harsh bitter bite to his tone.

"He seemed quite understanding to me... unless I've misjudged something. Do you not care of his thoughts for you?" Matthew asks, brows furrowing in concern.

"Of course, I do! Of course, I want to know!" he exclaims for never in his life did he had such a desire to know, never this fervent nor so full of painful longing.

Never.

_Not even for her._

"Then why are you so afraid?" Matthew asks.

"Because he doesn't care for me the same way I care for him. And do not try and tell me otherwise," he answers, remembering how Arthur slowly but surely started distancing himself from him. Bit by bit, the weeks turned into months and soon, into years.

"You speak so surely of this. Arthur did not even speak of such rejection," Matthew remarks, looking at him straight of as if daring him to refute such statements.

"I do not need to," he replies, his jaw tightens at the mere thought of it. "His actions are clear as day. He has no interest on such matters. He much prefers to bury himself in books," he adds rather bitterly recalling the day when he began noticing the changes between them.

One day, Arthur learned to ignore him in favor of books and long travels. One day, Arthur no longer liked sweets. One day, Arthur stopped his pranks and began talking to him civilly, no more petty quarrels or playful jibes. One day, Arthur was suddenly miles away from his grasp.

"Just as you preferred to distract yourself with merriment and mead?" Matthew reminds, and he cannot help but cringe at the memory.

_"Fine! Who cares about that stupid rabbit! I don't need him. Go to your dusty books and stinky candles! I don't care! Life is too precious to waste for the likes of him!" he declares in drunken fervor while the sounds of laughter and music drown him out._

"You cannot fool me Francis. You are afraid of the truth," Matthew declares with such confidence that it seems to strike something within him.

"There is nothing wrong with being afraid," he whispers, "there is nothing wrong with not wanting to be hurt," he says gritting his teeth as his hands curls upon the sheets.

"Let's say, Arthur does not return your feelings. Let's say that he has fallen for some mortal and only sees you as a friend."

"If this is a way to make me feel better Matthew, you are doing an awful job," he cuts in.

"I'm not saying this to make you feel better. I'm saying this for you to understand. Understand that while there is nothing wrong with being afraid, it is important to remember that we are given the choice on whether to face that fear or not," he retorts and Francis does not deign a reply.

Matthew sighs, taking Francis' clenching hands into his small thin ones.

"Facing our fears won't always have pleasant outcomes, but sometimes, pain... hurt... they are needed for us to heal and move on. Arthur is healing. So should you," Matthew speaks and nothing but a sob escapes.

"She would not want you to be like this."

A bitter laugh and a broken smile. He answers.

"I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> actually planned to publish this chapter earlier but my internet connection has been on the fritz for a while so I couldn't post a thing... a bit of Matthew and Francis interaction... we'll see more of Matthew in the incoming chapter. comments are always lovely. ^_^


	4. The Memories

**_the present..._ **

Matthew’s eyes flicker open, a tired sigh escapes his parched lips while he stretches out a hand for a glass of water only to realize the lack of it when his grip meets nothing but air. Deep violet eyes blink away the last vestiges of slumber, squinting at the almost glaring brightness around him.

_What the –oh._

It takes him a while to reorient himself to his surroundings. It takes him a while to remember, he is no longer home. No longer sheltered by warm oak and solid stone but ensconced by stillness and blinding white.

He eyes the cold marble floor and columns, thin fingers clench slightly against the silk sheets. The room feels like a tomb rather than a home.

_Home_. The word feels bitter, painful and jagged upon his thoughts. A sharp pang of nostalgia strikes him unexpectedly when a lone wooden chest catches his attention.

There is nothing remarkable with it, a simple box made of aged oak with an enchanted lock. Common runes and flecks of faded dye decorate its surface.

_One would think that after a millennia of living, one would have acquired more personal belongings,_ he muses, remembering the looks of surprise and pity that met him when he was asked to retrieve his things the day Francis and he said their goodbyes.

_"It seems it was a mere dream after all my friend." The resignation in Francis’ voice shakes something in him._

_"I am so sorry. I should not have – "_

**_I shouldn’t have said anything. I should not have given you such false hopes. I should have –_ **

_"Hush,” he assures, as if reading Matthew’s torrent of guilty thoughts, “a bit of hope goes a long way. But I seem to have reached the end of my journey." Francis smiles, tired and wan. A shadow of what once was._

_"Francis, I swear –”_

_"Don't. Don't do anything foolish for my sake. Now, I believe you have some things to pack up," he reminds giving him one more tired smile, breaking Matthew's own heart as a struggles to return it._

Nothing but books and trinkets. Mere memories. A lone stuffed bear at bedside to remind him of better brighter days of youth.

_“Look what I made, Mattie!”_

_“A bear?”_

_“It’s actually a dog,” he mutters before catching himself, “I mean, yeah! An awesome bear for my awesome brother!” Alfred grins brightly before softening into a shy smile, “I know you have bad dreams sometimes so… here! This guy will keep them away when you sleep… since you know… I need to train and stuff.”_

_“Alfred… thank you. I love it.”_

_“Really?!”_

_“Yes, I do.”_

Yes, trinkets and memories. Those are his only treasures. He briefly wonders if it is his destiny to become such a creature of loneliness forever tied to nothing but mere figments and fantasies of the soul.  

A flicker of movement catches his attention. He not surprised to see as he turns his so-called attendants – beings of magic wrapped in cloth, strange faceless beings that do nothing more but fulfill and answer to his will, or in this case, The Elders' will.

_"It is not right to simply leave you alone to fend for yourself, Matthew. We are more than willing to provide you proper care for all the trials Fate has cruelly cast upon you."_

That was their rationale. Take him in the name of charity. Of pity. After all, for him to sacrifice not one but two of his loved ones for the dark dragon. It was simple too much.

_"We need not lose another."_

Matthew cannot help but grimace at the memory along with its implications. He is weak. Fragile. A missed meal. A neglected fire could easily end him. He is not blind that the care they present is merely another way to keep and eye on him and his dreams.

Ever since Francis managed to intervene with their plot, they've kept a close watch on them. It started off as little visits which grew in frequency as time goes on.

They ask common questions.

Tiny inquiries that seem to delve deeper than intended.

" _How is young Francis? He doesn't seem quite as chipper as usual?"_

_"You look tired, Matthew. Perhaps, another time? Those dreams must be taking a toll on you."_

Matthew is no fool and he catches on quite quick once he notices the prying glances and stiff smiles.

He has warned Francis to be alert and be cautious of his comings and goings.

_"I think they suspect something," Matthew says in a low tone as they watch Elder Orion take leave._

_"It is possible. But it is not like they can do anything about it. Arthur is safe from their influence," Francis replies._

_"Yes. But, **we** are not. And the_ _last thing we want is getting on their wrong side," he points out._

_"True."_

The Fey in general are known to be very vindictive and sometimes petty creatures, elves are no exception. Just because the Elders are older and therefore expected to be more mature and reasonable, it does not make them immune to the common faults and follies of their kind no matter how much they try to deny it.

_This is especially true when this do not go their way,_ he adds as he slips into the folds of his past, pranks shifting and changing into something more hurtful and harsh.

So they continued to watch them under the thin guise of concern. It was a bit bothersome, stifling at times, but manageable. Francis plays his part well enough (despite a few slips where he allows his mask to fall), choosing to avoid scrutiny by taking refuge with travels and leaving Matthew to handle the simple yet fragile web they are weaving.

The story was simple. Arthur and Francis were friends. Francis thought it right to save his friend from himself by taking the source of corruption away. They only need to convince the Elders of it. Play the clueless pair for a decade or so and live their lives as if they didn’t purposely hinder the plans of the highest form authority within their kind and possibly the Fey world.

_But if only it were that easy_ , Matthew sighs, his lips thin into a line as he recalls the many nights where he catches Francis tossing and turning in his sleep. Nightmares – fevered dreams full of guilt and tears that leaves dark shadows in their wake.

He helplessly watches as the man’s once bright light slowly seep out of his eyes with each passing day. Francis hides his shadows well from the public, singing songs and drinking with friends. But Matthew never fails to notice how he rarely talks to the wolves now. Or tries to since the two tends to pester Francis from time to time and Francis never had the heart to refuse considering the events that played. He cannot help but go back to a certain conversation before Arthur and he had a chance to talk in the dreamscape.

_"I know not if it was kindness or vengeance,” Francis says with a faraway look in his eyes._

_"Francis?"_

They were having afternoon tea that day. Free of their usual tasks and preoccupations, they had decided to indulge in a rare treat of black tea and berries. He made no comment on why Francis even had some on hand let alone know how to prepare it since both of them prefer the indulgence of wine.

_"Arthur did not tell Gilbert and Antonio the whole story," he explains while Matthew silently nods in understanding._

**_Why, indeed._ **

_"I cannot say. Perhaps he does not think it matters," he voices earning a rather expressive short snap before Francis reigns the rest of the reaction in._

_"I hardly think he treats **this** as merely nothing, Matthew."_

Matthew has not been greatly supportive of some of Francis' choice in friends but he knows how much he cares for Gilbert and Antonio so he settled into a mixed reception of tolerance and understanding for the two. Over time, after a few centuries, on a good day, when he is not so cross from fatigue or bad dreams, he may even express a bit of reluctant fondness for the two.

So he said nothing, waiting as Francis bares his heart out and let its content spill.

_"I sometimes wish to tell them the truth... especially on days when they talk about Arthur and how he doesn't want them in his life anymore. How he doesn't trust them anymore. I hate it. How they constantly remind me of what it took. What I took. What I've broken beyond repair. But at the same time... I can't because – " he cuts off with a short gasp, he takes a shaky breath while his knuckles turn white as they curl into fists._

_Matthew moves around the table to move closer to Francis’ side and lays his hands on Francis', rubbing circles on them as they loosen their hold._

_"Because, no matter how much it pains me, I cannot bear to lose them as well," he finishes off with a sob as he allows Matthew to catch him in an embrace while muffled cries and tears stain the peaceful afternoon._

It frustrated him. To see Francis in a state of perpetual guilt and grief. Despite his words and assurances. Despite his comfort, Francis’ wounded heart remains to fester and break. Matthew felt so powerless when a familiar look haunts Francis’ once bright features.

It was when Joan’s absence was fresh and sharp upon them. It was like a shadow descended, encasing them in stilted time and monotony. Everything was mechanical. Stiff. Cold.

A purpose for a purpose. An act for an act.

They stayed in that little bubble of false comfort, ignoring the heavy pangs of grief echoing within them. They smile. They laugh. Hollow and broken. Forcefully telling themselves that they are healing and will eventually allow the shadows to leave their eyes.

_But we did not… we stayed trapped in time for we were afraid…_

_Afraid of moving on. Forgetting. Being happy. Are we even allowed such things anymore?_

_Yes, yes we are,_ he answers the memory, remembering the tiny bits of progress made over the years. Dwindling tears and small smiles creeping up to them. A soft chuckle. A wry grin. Bit by bit the shadows lighten.

They were getting better, moving on and living life. He never forgets the day when Francis came home slamming the front door with blue eyes bright and cheeks flushed with emotion.

_“Are you all right?”he asks, brows furrowing in concern as he watches his friend practically fuming in annoyance, pacing around the room, muttering something about unicorns and caterpillars. Too distracted to notice him enter their room._

_“Francis!” he calls out, jerking the other from his flurried thoughts._

_“What?!” Francis snaps, only to apologize when he realizes who it was._

_“You seem... worked up,” he supplies._

_“It is nothing…” Francis sighs, forcing himself to calm down before he continues on with an explanation, “I got trapped in a circle and…”_

_“You were **what**?!”_

_“It was nothing Matthew. A mistake. A mishap caused by a foolish child,” Francis assures, pacifying him in calming gestures._

_“A child,” he clarifies, trying to picture out how a mere mortal managed to make something powerful enough to entrap an elf._

_“It was a fluke. The wrong circle paired with the wrong spell.”_

_“Still…”_

_“Think nothing of it my friend. I am over it. I just can’t believe the sheer arrogance of the thing! Can you believe it? He actually called **me** stupid!”Francis all but bemoans, describing in full detail of the meeting with additional comments on how monstrous the child’s brows were._

_“No, you don’t understand, Matthew. They were practically eating up his adorable face. And his eyes! Let me tell you…”_

Francis talked the whole day. It has been a long time since the elf became so animated about something, usually more content on his own musings if he was not in a social mood. He found it rather silly, to be honest. How a mere child had managed to rouse some life in their stagnant lives.

However, just when Matthew thought all was going to be well for them, Fate decided to be cruel once more. For he sees the shadows growing darker and he could do nothing but assure Francis with a dream. A dream even he now doubts but still fervently hopes to be true.

_"Perhaps it truly was a mere dream. A dream meant for me only to be lost amongst the intricate tendrils of the soul that holds us," Francis muses one night at dinner, falling deep into the shadows once more._

_"It was a waking dream. I assure you."_

_"Another world then, only with the same faces and circumstances," Francis says with a sigh before continuing and cutting Matthew off, "It's been almost five years Matthew. Yet I do not see his rage faltering even a bit."_

_"You cannot know that," he corrects for, how would Francis know if he only sees but never hears. The wolves are hardly a good source of information considering their own standing with Arthur._

_"I do not have to!" he snaps, slamming a fist against the table jolting Matthew a little._

_"I know him. If he truly has understood the necessity of my actions then surely he would have deigned to attempt **some** form of contact."_

_"You forget how stubborn mortals are. How is your Arthur any different," he reminds._

_"True. He is quite the stubborn sort," Francis concedes, a fond smile upon his lips while the edges of his eyes soften before he continues._

_"I know I have to be patient, Matthew. But sometimes, I cannot help it and wonder, have I not been patient enough?"_

Matthew shakes his head, dispelling the memory of Francis' fruitless waiting only to remember a different memory all together.

_"Do not play innocent Matthew. We know there is more to this than meets the eye. From what we have heard, they do not seem to be friends at all. They fought and bickered more like enemies than friends. It does not make sense," Elder Orion declares, sharp black eyes looking at him in scrutiny._

_"Then perhaps, despite all their fights, they were still friends. Strange friends, yes. But, friends nonetheless," he tries to explain for even he cannot place the two's relationship into proper words and descriptions._

_"Is it so hard to comprehend? Surely, in all your wisdom you can understand the need of sacrifice. The need to be cruel to be kind," he adds while the Elder purses his lips in thought._

_"The boy is in pain," Elder Orion says instead making Matthew's jaw clench in reaction._

_"Francis is quite aware how important magic is to the Kirkland boy. It pains him to be the one to take the magic away considering how much the mortal cares for it," he explains, trudging through the urge to sharpen his tongue because how many times must he explain this._

_"But for a mortal! An unnecessary burden to take. He could have come to us," the Elder huffs._

_"Perhaps he thought it under you. The Council does not need to trouble themselves with a mere mortal, unless he is that much of threat?" he replies, keeping a pacifying tone making the Elder's lips twist clearly noting the subtle implications in the statement._

**_Do you fear him that much?_ **

_"I would understand if he still has his magic but he is practically powerless now. He will die in a few decades, maybe even less. Such a short time for our kind, allow him to continue his life as he chooses. Besides, did Francis not give you the orb for safe keeping? Is that not enough?" he continues, ignoring the narrowed calculating gaze of the other for so long as they do not get a confession or evidence the Council of Elders can do nothing but allow Arthur to escape their judgement._

_"You have a point," Elder Orion concedes rather begrudgingly, "And perhaps, what between them is truly friendship and not some curse the mortal has cast upon Francis. But it does not change that Francis is not well and needs help," he adds in, arms crossing upon his chest, reminding how annoying and stubborn the Elder can be when set to a certain goal or task which is in this case, to monitor them for anything unusual. It did not help their situation when Francis finally started slipping, allowing his weakened state to show. The Elders are apparently more observant than he anticipated._

_"And you think getting a new bond mate will be the key to his recovery? Has the centuries withered your minds?" he bites out, his frustration starting to show making the Elder snap in turn._

_"Watch your tongue!"_

_"I apologize. I’ve allowed my temper to get the best of me. Francis is like family to me and I do not like how you suggest rushing him into a relationship when he clearly does not want one," he stresses, recalling the many many times such suggestions have been voiced._

_"The boy needs to realize that he does not need to bleed his heart for a mortal. A dangerous one at that. His allegiance with the wolves makes him an even greater threat," the Elder sighs, clearly tired of the revolving topic conversation between them._

_"And now he is just a man. The threat is no more. Or did you all also forget that his alliance with the wolves are now strained at best," he reminds making Elder Orion's lips thin._

_"Point taken," Elder Orion sighs in clear resignation, "If you think it is best that we leave Francis to cope on his own then who am I to question?" Matthew ignores the slight tone in the Elder's voice, "You, after all, know him **far** better than we do. Besides, even if I desire to pursue such topics further, it is late, I best be going.”_

_Matthew nods, wishing him a safe travel before he slumps heavily against his seat._

The memory dissipates when he notices the unusually heavy air in the room.

_Did something happen?_ he wonders, watching the attendants shift about, depicting a bit of restlessness possibly mirroring the mood of their masters. Their movements add more tenseness to the air.

“Did you dream again?” A voice asks, he does not bother to find the source, they are mere extensions of its masters and the Elders been wary of his dreams still. How they think keeping him in this gilded white prison is going to make him more open to them is beyond him but he had refrained from speaking about his dreams since – fearful that the wrong knowledge will reach the wrong ears.

“No, it’s the air. People are restless,” he answers watching the attendants sway and nod as if they are one common unit. He misses Francis already.

A pang of guilt still resounds within him whenever he recalls when the fateful day of choosing had come. All the elves were gathered in the great all of Elder castle. Elves are few in numbers, their women, although strong cannot bear more than two children. And even then, there are so few women born amongst men that their numbers have dwindled over the centuries.

He, like the others waited in fearful anticipation. Someone was going to become a gift. A sacrifice. He remembers the whispers before the silence as everyone held their breaths.

_“Francis Goodfaith of the Faern!” His breathing hitches at mention of his name and for a moment, he cannot breathe. All the while his mind and heart screams._

**_No! Me! Pick me instead! Choose me!_ **

“You should not concern yourself… your health has declined since the Ceremony of Choice. Rest. All is well,” the voice assures but Matthew knows better than to believe it.

“Okay,” he replies, as he lays back down, closing his eyes as he tried to hone his senses and pick up what really is going on.

_“It’s gone?! What do you mean, it’s gone!”_

_“It was the wolves, My Lord.”_

_“The scryers are already looking for it.”_

_“They are in pursuit.”_

Matthew gasps as the hacking coughs begins raking through his body. Ever since the day of Choice, he has been forcefully directing his dreams, finding ways through the dreamscapes to see beyond what was intended.

The effects are never pretty.

“Young Master, what is it?” an attendants ask while he waves them off, claiming the room is too cold and needs more fire.

“More fire for the master,” the attendant relays as the others nod and begin feeding the fire while Matthew shakes at the knowledge he found. He takes a deep calming breath, closing his eyes once more to get a feel of the atmosphere.

In certain ways, the dreams get easier to manage. In certain ways, it gets easier to understand why some fear his gift even more.

After all, how easy was if for him to plant thoughts into the subconscious. How easy it was for him to navigate and control his surroundings with a few hinted gestures.

The guards just happened to be on break. Those who were supposed to take their place just happened to sleep a little longer than intended. The mage just happened to forget a rather simple yet important rune when he recast the wards around the vault even if he was doing such a task for years. It just happened no one noticed the wolves. Just a series of misfortunes that paved the way for two simple werewolves to grab the orb unopposed. Just as it happened that the two wolves decided that such night would be the right night for their plan.

It frightens him. This power. Never realizing how fragile minds can be.

**_Too much. It hurts so much._ **

So he ignores it. His vision blurs and his bones weaken. His throat dries and his hand shakes. The power takes its toll. Take its payment. Matthew gladly gives it. Feeds it more until there is nothing left of him.

**_For Francis,_ ** _he urges, reminds himself of his purpose._

So he sleeps. He dreams. And watches as the pieces fall into place.

* * *

 

He wakes up to nothing. A strange stillness pervades and it makes him worry even more.

“How long was I asleep?” he asks and the attendant said he was sleep for more than half a day which is not that really uncommon for him.

“I see.”

“Is there something wrong, Matthew? Did you see something?”

“Not much… just an ordinary dream…”

“Why, did something happen while I was asleep?” he ventures only to meet an air of hesitancy before the attendant’s voice changes into a more familiar voice.

“Please do not be alarmed but two wolves tried to steal the Orb.”

“W-What?” he feigns surprise as his heart pounds in anticipation and fear.

He did not expect them to notice its disappearance so soon.

_Keep calm, Matthew. They are more capable than they appear._ He assures himself, hoping that he truly did see Gilbert and Antonio with Arthur holding the orb.

“But don’t worry, we managed to retrieve the orb,” the voice assures, as if detecting his distress.

His world stops. He forces himself to breathe.

_Stupid wolves! Can you not get anything right!_ he inwardly seethes, feeling the hopelessness crawl and latch upon his heart.  

“And the werewolves?” he inquires.

“They foolishly enlisted the young Kirkland in their quest. They managed to cross the barrier but were careless enough to drop the orb behind when we were in pursuit.”

_No!_

He gasps, the edges of his vision darken, tears of frustration threatening to spill at the implications. The barrier is there for a reason, no one knows what’s in there anymore, to break through it without any form of magical support is suicide.

“Their fates are sealed now,” the voices echo and Matthew lets the darkness swallow him whole.

_Forgive me, Francis._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are always lovely. we'll go back to Arthur in the next and final chapter.


	5. The Wizard's End

 

“We made it. We actually fucking made it,” Gilbert breathes, practically heaving out his lungs from the recent exertion. After all, one doesn’t always get involved in a mad chase with elves riding on their strange wraith-like horses, sleek tall almost ethereal creatures maintained by magic, anchored by remnants of a creature long dead. 

How they managed to catch up is a mystery since they did not see a single sign of elven influence in their trek up the Northern Borders' shadowed edges, only up until they've began nearing their destination did they hear the heavy gallops rushing upon them forcing them to pick up their pace.

One of the possible theories Arthur has come up is that they've placed some sort of initial barrier around the perimeter along with possible hidden outposts nearby to investigate whenever the alarm was triggered. And considering the recent pilferage from their vaults, the outposts were probably warned to be more alert than usual.

Thus, making him conclude that either these two idiots forgot mention the presence of these sentry outposts or the alarm was triggered by a certain degree of magical presence.

And judging from the rather hefty sum of charms and potions in their arsenal, he likes to conclude that the cause of their detection is the latter.  

“Arthur? You still alive?” Gilbert asks, wolf form long gone as he turns his gaze towards him.

“Barely. Damn, those elves were fast,” he remarks, slipping clumsily on the wet muddy ground when he tries to get his bearings, making both wolves cough up a few indiscreet chuckles.

“Yeah, but we’re faster right?” Antonio grins, offering up a hand which Arthur gladly takes.

“Right.”

The plan was quite simple. Considering the factors present, it would not be long before the elves find out that something have been stolen from their vaults since they do a weekly inventory.

_“Where did you get that information?” asks Alwyn with a doubtful suspicious look._

_“Uh… isn’t it like… obvious?” both werewolves answer with a shrug making the three brothers frown in response._

_“Oh, come on. They are practically on our tails right about now, do you really think it’s time to trace up the info?” Gilbert retorts with a gruff huff, impatience practically radiating from him._

_“Fine. Listen up,” Alastair relents with a growl, gesturing the two to come closer to discuss their next move._

They will give chase and casually make it look like an accident that they dropped the Orb, which was charmed to look untouched by instilling some of the characteristics found in the Kirkland stones.

_"So you made this thing radiate magic?" Antonio blinks, holding up the Orb trying to see if there's a visible difference._

_"It's more complicated than that," Alastair scoffs, muttering the inability of werewolves to appreciate the intricacies of magic under his breath before launching into an explanation, "It converts the magic around it to radiate a certain signature similar to Arthur's. And with it being stashed in the Fey world, it practically has an unlimited supply."_

_Antonio's brows furrow at the explanation, "but doesn't that mean that within a certain time the magic it'll radiate will be more Fey instead of human?" he asks earning an appreciative grin from the three brothers._

_"That won't be a problem so long as there is a certain part of me to keep it human. A smear of saliva... don't give me that look, blood is too noticeable! Anyways, smear a bit of spit on the surface and it is more than enough to last a lifetime," Arthur adds in rather proudly since it was his suggestion._

_“Unless they decided to open it up, they won’t know its empty, so make sure to keep yer tricks to yourself,” Alastair warns as he hands them back the now empty Orb along with the rest of the much needed charms for their quests._

_“Save yer thanks, just come home, aye?”_

_“Aye.”_

The fact that they underestimated the speed elves can gain on with their magical horses (creatures  made of – if his theories were correct – the blood and bones of dead centaurs taken long ago before peace treaties and laws were wrought between the disagreeing races) was a severe miscalculation on their parts which resulted to the two wolves going at full speed with a bit of Arthur’s magic aiding them. The hard part wasn’t the running, it was making sure that Arthur doesn’t show off his already acquired magic.

_So far, so good._

“It’s a good thing your brother had the sense to make an extra strong barrier breaker. You should appreciate your brothers more Artie, especially since they made sure you didn’t fry yourself when you finally took your magic back,” Gilbert says as he begins taking out some of their clothes and handing them to Antonio, two plain tunics made of thick linen and woolen breeches unlike Arthur who wears a more layered look with a padded vest enchanted with both warming and cooling runes, a heavy cloak and a pair of sturdy boots.

The wolves do not need much protection from the cold considering the amount of body heat they produce and the soles of their feet are thicker, deeming footwear more of a fashion statement rather than a necessity.

“I’ll make sure to send them something after this,” Arthur replies, fingers unconsciously touching his new ear piercing (a heavily enchanted silver cuff-like earring) found just at the upper edge of his left ear that works as his power limiter.

_“Here, wear this. This will keep the magic under control, don’t give me that look Arthur. It’s been five years. Your mind might still be strong enough but your body is not,” Alwyn informs as he pricks Arthur’s ear, murmuring a series of spells and enchantments as he signals Alastair to begin returning Arthur’s magic._

_“It’s practically a handicap, but it’s better than killing yourself,” Alastair agrees as he double checks the charm. “With your luck, you need all the help you need.”_

_“Which is why we’re bring a boat load of charms and potions, even brought some extra special items in, just in case. If this isn’t preparation, then I don’t know what is.”_

“Yeah, after we celebrate in slaying the big angry dragon. By the way, where are we?” Antonio asks, as he begins sniffing the air.

“Probably just at the edge of the barrier… if the map you stole was right, then the castle would be somewhere in the middle of it,” Arthur answers, taking out an old velum map, his eyes squinting tightly while he tries to decipher some of the notes only to fail. He never really bothered learning Elvish.

“Great. Let’s get going then!” Gilbert exclaims with a grin as they began going deeper into the woods.

* * *

It takes him a while, to get his bearings and get a good look at the place. Dark miasma and fog coiling at their feet. Gangly trees and vines hanging over them, casting shadows of snakes and claws, the sky was a featureless canvas of black that gives off a dark red glow making them unable to tell if it was night or day.

The color reminds Arthur of dried blood.

A shiver goes down his spine, when a strange sensation begins creeping on him along with the land's cold air. It was magic. But not. Different in ways he cannot describe. Dark. Ancient. A steady thrum of power in the air. Yet, the land feels barren. Dead. There is this unnerving silence that makes his heart pound faster than usual.

_It’s almost like, it’s tainting the air._

“Hey, Arthur,” Gilbert mutters beside him cutting off his thoughts, “You never did tell us why you decided to change your mind.”

“It’s complicated, let’s just say that he had his reasons and I deem them valid enough to agree in this foolhardy mission of ours,” he retorts mentally scoffing at the man’s ill-timed questions.

_Leave it to Gilbert to gossip of all times._

“Huh, complicated. You just don’t want to talk about it,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Antonio and me –”

“Antonio and _I,_ ” he corrects in reflex.

“Really? Is this really the right time to correct my grammar? Really?” Gilbert throws him a look while Antonio shakes his head in some form of fondness while Arthur shrugs it off.

“Anyways, Tonio and _I_ want to save Francis because he’s our friend. That simple. We care about him. There’s no harm in telling us you care for him too.”

_I care for him **too** much, **that’s** the problem._

“You care for him so much that you risked your necks and a possible war between the elves. You are aware how reckless you two were? How did you two idiots even manage it anyways?” he asks diverting the conversation, stifling the tiny stirrings of jealousy within, after all, why was he not enough to merit such reckless sacrifice.

“I don’t suppose you would believe us when we tell you that we got away with sheer dumb luck because that’s what kinda happened,” Antonio grins earning a scowl while Gilbert snickers at the reaction.

“What can we say, Artie? We’re just that lucky,” he chimes in with a big sharp grin.

“You mean to convince me that the reason why you two managed to infiltrate a magically secure vault without any form of outside help is because of dumb luck?!” he snipes, arms cross upon his chest, mind already whirling with thoughts and suspicions.

“Well… it’s not our fault they didn’t notice a pair of wolves prowling in the dead of night. Come on, Artie. We can be discreet when we wanna be,” Gilbert shrugs and Antonio nods along as if things were just that simple.

“All right. Let’s say you two oafs actually managed subterfuge for once. How did you get past the magic vault?” he asks.

“We have theory on that, actually,” Antonio answers and Arthur can already feel the creeping suspicion that he is not getting the whole story of things.

“A theory. Which implies you are uncertain how things came to be, do you even hear the words coming out from your mouth? The sheer incredulity of the matter?” he remarks earning a look from the two making him sigh.

“Okay, let’s hear this theory. How did two stupid wolves managed to break into an elven safe?”

“You know, that almost sounds like a start of a good jo –”

“Not. now. Gilbert,” he grits.

“Fine. Fine. Antonio and me got talking and we wondered if the reason why the safe was only meant to keep those with magic out while those without –”

“Get to freely wonder in without setting off at least one alarm? You’re joking,” he deadpans.

“Well, think about it. It’s a vault of magical stuff. Why would people without a trace of magic break in?” Antonio replies.

“Aside from the much obvious goals of power you mean?” he quips, making the two frown in consternation.

“Hey! It’s not like the vault was wide open when we got there. We had to pick the stupid locks too you know,” Gilbert points out making Arthur pause.

“You know how to pick locks,” he clarifies, clearly new to this form of skill.

“Antonio, actually.”

“Very useful skill back then. And their locks were really old,” he smiles making Arthur wonder just how much people tend to underestimate such smiles.

Arthur decides to file the list of questions on another date.

“All right, I’ll take your explanation for now. But still –”

“Arthur, sometimes certain things happen… I tend to refer to it as Fate,” Antonio smiles once more, not reassuring him one bit. It was too easy. Like puzzle pieces finding respective corners and simply clicking into place but the patterns are mismatched.

“And besides, let’s say someone did help us get your magic back. So what? It’s not like they did anything bad, in my opinion,” Gilbert adds in making Arthur frown.

“Not yet you mean, how are we to know this isn’t part of some trap to get me killed or something,” he snaps.

“Slow down, Arthur. We don’t even know if there _is_ a someone. But come on, we all could use a bit of luck, and it’s not like there’s anything we can do about it now,” Antonio says, pacifying his thoughts.

“Point taken, but still… I can’t help feeling there’s something we’re missing,” he sighs, _maybe they are just that bloody lucky._

“Maybe it’s the place… it feels… wrong somehow.”

“Yeah…” Gilbert echoes in, a distant look in his eyes as he gazes on the black waters of the lake.

Arthur notices and immediately grabs hold, “Careful!” he warns, “we do not know what lurks in this place… and whatever you do, do not touch anything suspicious... this includes strangely alluring dark lakes and gems. You know the rules,” he reminds, this is not their first magical quest together and they had their fair share of accidents and curses that could have been avoided if they just didn’t touch anything they shouldn’t have.

“Also, this place is steeped in old magic, so if any of you notice something off with each other or me, don't keep it to yourselves," he warns, noting the faint bluish green glow of the Kirkland stones tied to their necks, "Now, come on. Let’s go find that stupid elf. Hell, with your kind of luck we may even avoid fighting the dragon altogether.”

* * *

It’s official. They are lost and Arthur has half a mind to scream that these idiots for stealing a defective map.

“Do you think we’re lost?” Antonio asks worriedly as he tries to make sense of the surroundings because he’s been sniffing the same tree for hours now.

_Leave it to Antonio to point out the obvious._

“We are not lost. We just need to get a better gist of this map,” Gilbert insists as he glares at the map even harder, like it will magically make sense after staring at it at prolonged periods of time.

_Leave it to Gilbert to deny it._

“We should have known better than to take directions from Elves. They are shitty navigators,” he remarks, sharply kicking a pebble further ahead. He’s tired, dirty, and they have probably been walking in circles.

“Arthur has a point, maybe we should just you know… wing it,” Antonio suggests and the two just looks at him as he just sprouted a new head.

“What? It’s not like we know where we’re actually going,” he replies with the cheerful shrug while Arthur and Gilbert share a look wondering if the cold has finally gotten to him.

However, after careful consideration they decided, _why the bloody hell not._

“He has a point… we’re practically lost anyways,” Arthur sighs while he rummages through his pockets where he fishes out a coin. “Heads, we go forward. Tails, we try to retrace our steps and see if we can scout the area properly,” he declares as he flips the coin and calls it.

“Heads!”

“Let’s go!” Antonio cheerfully announces as he dashes through the trees while the two catch up to him and bonk him in the head.

“Idiot! Did you forget that we’re in a forest infested with magic?!” Arthur reproaches as Antonio simply laughs it off as they make their way through the thickness of black and green.

* * *

“Well, what do know… the coin was right,” Gilbert cackles as they slowly approach a large stone castle that looks more like a fortress than anything. High stone walls that seem to radiate with black magic along with a drawbridge for the moat that is dark as the river of Styx. It looks frozen for some reason, in fact, everything within this barrier seems stuck in time and silence, washed with blood red light to keep things even more disturbing.

“Tsk, as expected, we have a better chance leaving it to chance than that blasted map of theirs,” he scoffs before stopping in his tracks. The drawbridge is down and the gates are open, yet no dragon was there to grace their presence.

“Come on… let’s go,” he signals the two to follow as he cautiously takes one step forward, testing the presence of a barrier. He kicks a pebble across the decaying wood but so far, nothing out of the ordinary is happening.

“Be on guard,” he whispers the warning as both nod in affirmation. They slowly make their way across when Arthur notices something, or perhaps it’s more appropriate to note the lack of it. No claw marks… everything, miraculously clean and untouched. He dares to reach out and lightly touch the cold stone wall only to shiver at the very noticeable thrum of energy trying to escape.

“Do you sense anything?” Antonio asks, the smile long gone as both wolves begin shedding some of their human traits. Ears and noses elongate while the jaw grow bigger to accommodate the larger sets of teeth.

“I do,” he confirms, trying to get a sense of what kind of magic is enveloping the place. “But it’s strange… the whole place… it’s radiating too much energy. It’s like it’s alive or something,” he mutters, trying to piece things together.

“What do you mean… alive?” Gilbert asks, a growl rumbling in his throat. Antonio’s eyes narrow growing suspicious by each passing moment.

_Something’s not right. It’s too quite. Too clean. What happened here?_

“This place is teeming with dormant energy,” he explains, brows furrowing in confusion.

_Things are not adding up. This place seems cursed… the lack of visible life… the unusual silence… a strange radiation of energy… I don’t understand…  there is nothing here that can stop a dragon… unless…_

“What’s going on in that head of yours, Arthur?” Antonio asks, catching the way his eyes flicker towards the hallways once more.

“Things aren’t adding up,” he supplies before deciding to let it go for now. They have an elf to find.  

“Very carefully… follow my lead. Literally. Do not deviate,” he warns as he casts a visibility spell. “The floors are loaded with defense spells. Be careful,” he adds as he begins hopping from one tile to the next. His steps are slow, cautious, much to the wolves’ impatience. He eyes the door at the end of the hall, how it seems to give out a distinctive muted almost silvery glow, he suspects and hopes that accessing the door will lead them closer to their quest.

He stops to eye the spells ingrained on the tiles. They’ve passed most of them now. He takes one more step only to see – before his very eyes – the tiles switch making him activate the spell.

 _What? No!_ He stares in horror as everything begins to shake and be engulfed by a bright blinding light.

“Arthur what’s –”

_Fuck._

* * *

“Glad you to see you awake, Arthur.” His eyes immediately snap open as his body lurches forward in an attempt to get up, only for the world to shift before him and make him lie back down.

_Lie back down on a soft warm lap – what the hell?_

“F-Francis? W-what?”  His eyes meet a familiar pair of indigo blues, looking at him worriedly as he try to take a better grasp of his current situation. _I’m in a room. A white room. There is a red door at end. Francis. Francis is here._

“Calm down, you’re still confused from the fall,” Francis says as he stops Arthur from getting up.

_Fall? What fall?_

He remembers a bright light spoken with a warning. And then...

Nothing.

“Gilbert and Antonio,” he mentions, trying desperately to remember what happened but all he saw was a bright white light that blinded and enveloped everything around him.

“I do not know where they are… the creature must have tossed them into some dark dungeon or something,” Francis shakes his head, possibly in remorse or guilty for Arthur does not understand.

“What do you mean?” Arthur did not see a creature. In fact, the only form of life he saw in this place was _foliage_. And even _that_ was pushing it.  

“The creature is still bound by its promise not to harm a single soul so long as the Elders abide with their end of the bargain,” Francis explains but Arthur has enough sense to see a large gaping hole in all of this.

“But – then why am I here?” he asks, finally able to get up as Francis looks off into the distance, lips pursed as he formulates a reply.

“I don’t know how the creature thinks, Arthur. It has probably seen some use for you,” Francis answers, fine brows knitting as he meets Arthur’s gaze as if trying to decipher the problem himself.

“Why are you here, Arthur?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Frog-face? Why, to save you of course,” he answers and immediately Francis’ face falls into a frown.

“You shouldn’t have come. The creature… the creature _feeds_ on magic.”  

“It feeds on _Fey_ magic. Not mortal ones,” he corrects. _There is something strange here, things aren’t connecting. Why is Francis here in this room? Why am I here? Where are the wolves?_ He continues to ask himself only to fall short. Something distracts him. A memory. A tiny specks of dust floating in the sunlight.

_Wait..._

"Why are you here, Arthur?" he asks once more, more pressing and insistent.

"Must I repeat myself, Frog? To save your sorry ass. The two idiots even stole back my magic to get you back."

“So that was your price. Do you desire magic that much? Is this really worth it?” Francis asks, and Arthur realizes he’s wearing nothing but a white robe. Normally, it would look quite well on the elf. Highlights his more effervescent qualities like his hair or the way his eyes shine like dark sapphires when the lights hit them just so.

_Focus, Arthur! He looks **sick**._

It’s true. The white shift makes the elf’s skin look almost pasty and thin. His long hair, unusually limp and dull. His eyes are weary, lacking that all too familiar spark of life and brightness, he notes the faint bruising just under them.    

“Honestly? I would’ve been fine without it. But I could never forgive myself if I’ve let the opportunity slip away…” he trails off, watches as Francis gives him a thin smile of amusement.

“Your recklessness is very troubling,” he remarks and Arthur wonders just how much magic the dragon takes from its victims to become so… _docile_. When he first met the elf, he was loud and relentless as he bangs his fists against the circle’s wall. He already knows Francis would not really tell him what’s wrong so he decides to take another approach.  

“I’ve talked to Matthew…”

That makes Francis pause before asks in with a slight hitch in his voice, "how?"  

"In a dream," he supplies and Francis shudders.

"A dream," Francis echoes, a distant look in his eyes which worries Arthur.

"Yes... he looked rather surprised to be there in the first place. Like he wasn't supposed to be there," he says, elaborating a bit trying to gauge Francis' reaction to the information.

"How," he stops a bit, as if trying to find the proper description, "fortunate… tell me, what did you two talk about?"

"A few things. A bit about magic and history... but he was quite specific in his desire to talk about _you_ , Francis."

Francis stiffens, a false smile stiffens upon his features, "Oh? Pray tell, little rabbit. What about me?"

"You tell me," he challenges, eyeing the elf that seems to be too passive for comfort.

"You assume that I am aware of the contents of this little conversation," Francis gives a little sniff and normally, he would have believed such nonchalance if not for the unusual stiffness in the elf. The way his knuckles pale while folded upon his lap. The rigidity in his posture. Or how his lips thin along with the tightness of his jaw.

"Does Matthew not share his dreams with you?" he asks instead, earning another snort.

"You give the intimacy of our relationship too much credit. No, Matthew does not make it a habit to share his dreams with me," Francis answers but something in Arthur tells him to push just a bit more.

"Really, I expected him to share the rare moment he managed a trip within this reality," he remarks watching how Francis practically forces himself to relax under his scrutiny.

"It was five years ago..."

"For you maybe," Arthur retorts more sharply than intended making Francis snap back in reflex.

"It’s a bit late for this, don’t you think?" Francis bites out, a bitter grimace on his face that transforms into a pained smile, "what happened to all that hate, little rabbit?"

"Does it matter? I do not hate you _now_."

"Ah, but you admit that you did." His tone turns playful, as if finding triumph in Arthur's admission.

"That’s not the point!" he feels his temper boiling as he wills it down with a deep breath, "You want the truth? Yes, I hated you. You took advantage of my trust. You took my magic away, my Sight and a part of who I am. And I hated you for that."

"And now? If you do not hate me, then what do you feel? Was one waking dream truly enough to change such a stubborn heart?"  

"Now," he stops, hesitant as he purses his lips in contemplation, their eyes meet, weary eyes so full of sorrowful resignation that makes Arthur want to shake him and say, _fight damn you! fight!_

"What happened to you, Francis?" he asks instead and Francis gives him an infuriatingly painful thin smile.

"I do not know what you are talking about." The smile stretches so tightly Arthur can almost mistake it for a grimace. It also tells him that the elf has no plans in elaborating his current situation.

 _Fine. Have it your way!_ He concludes, shifting his attention back to the room, trying to look for a means of escape. He stands and Francis flinches at the sudden action eliciting a series of clinks that makes him freeze.

He turns to the elf who suddenly pales, "Arthur, no -" he calls out trying to stop him from bending down to his knees to raise the hem and see the chains on Francis' ankles.

"Why didn't you say anything! This is iron!" Arthur snaps and Francis merely purses his lips.

"Francis, why didn't you say anything?" he asks once more, a bit more gentle and pleading because he is starting to feel the tendrils of fear and worry creeping upon him.

"What's the use? It's not like you can get them off. Besides, they do not burn me as much," Francis remarks, eyes distant as Arthur grits his teeth in frustration.

"What do you mean they do not burn? Have you seen your ankles?!" he exclaims, gesturing to the irritated skin. Harsh angry blistering red that seem to burn upon his touch. Francis doesn't deign to acknowledge him.

"Francis!"

"Just leave it be Arthur!" he cries out startling Arthur with its volume and pain. "It's pointless. Nothing works. So stop wasting your time and -"

"And what? Leave? You think I'm going to leave you here with some monster?" He is angry, so angry that he can feel the blood rush and his heart hammer against his chest while he grits in his teeth, locking his jaw tight.

And then, a memory. A misplaced comment that makes his blood run cold.

_"You reek of it!"_

"Do you think of me so cruel? Is that how you see me? Some corrupted dirty thing that –" he grapples, the memory of that night gripping him, twisting his thoughts and poisoning his heart.

"No! You don't understand Arthur!"

"Then, tell me! Make me understand!"

Deep inside, he knows the truth. Yet, as he lingers longer, his emotions grow chaotic. _Maybe it's the taint of the land. The corruption._ How the very air they breathe seem to amplify everything so suddenly and uncontrollably. How one tiny comment could drive him to such extreme conclusions.

 _Not as immune as I thought then... calm yourself Arthur_ , he struggles, managing to recover and reign in his emotions in time to hear Francis speak.

"To what end, Arthur? It's too late! Even if you no longer hate me. Even if by some mercy you've forgiven what has been done to you. What I have taken and what pain I have caused, it no longer matters. I am _bound_ here. Forever." He chokes out a sob, his shoulders sagging in defeat and hopelessness.

"You don't know that! If you just –" He takes Francis by the shoulders, giving him a shake only to meet nothing but silence and resignation. Oh, how it makes his blood boil.

"So that's it. You're just going to give up. Just like that." His grip tightens, lips curling into a snarl, "You don't even care do you."

The finality of his statement seem to rouse something from the elf, making him turn to meet his gaze with a challenging look, "And you do?" Francis asks, fine brows scrunching up into a furrow.

"Well, Francis. It's not like I stage rescue missions out of spite," he bites out, a sharp unforgiving harsh tone that turns almost pleading as all the anger in him suddenly drains out, "Francis, please. Let us help you," his grip falters when Francis reaches out to cup his face.

"Ever my stubborn rabbit. You know, I care for you more than I ever should," he confesses as he looks at Arthur, a soft genuine smile so fragile and thin that urges him to reach back and offer comfort but he stops himself fearing that Francis might retreat and break off once more, "There are times when I wonder and fear of you finally moving on. You will meet someone… and you will forget everything about me… about magic… you will heal and I will be left alone again." He turns away, hands fold back to his lap as his gaze grows distant once more.

"You are not alone," he breathes, insists on it, reaching out to hold Francis' cold clammy hands, "You have so much people who care for you."

"And you? Do you actually claim to include yourself in this list of people or are you here to merely settle a debt?" his voice is wary, skeptical but he makes no move to take back his hands firmly held in Arthur's grasp.

"Of course, I care, you bloody frog," he exasperates, suddenly tired, frustration bearing down on him like a ton of rocks.

_Why doesn't be believe me?!_

"But not the way I want." He barely hears it, a whisper hidden behind a heavy breath. Spoken so softly he takes a moment to wonder if it was truly spoken at all.

"You sound so sure of that. You speak of it as if it is a distant dream," he comments and Francis smiles in reply.

“Is it so wrong to hope and dream?"

"None at all. But why must one dream and hope for a thing that is already being freely given," he answers, keeping a rather nonchalant tone, but his steady gaze did not miss how Francis looks at him, wide-eyed and speechless. The way the words freeze and stutter to halt. He grapples. Trying to find a reply but found none.

So Arthur does it for him instead.

"Will you believe me though, if I say in fact that I too desire the same way of caring. The same depth of devotion to match my own?" he asks, suddenly bashful, no longer trying to meet the wide-eyed gaze.

"If what you say it true..."

"It's true," he cuts him off, heart suddenly brave as it thrums with emotion, "never doubt that for, I assure you, what I say is no pretty lie nor cruel joke. You are most important to me Francis Goodfaith and while I may seem awkward and foolish in my ways and expressions, I would never splay out such confessions to just anyone."

"And I am that one?"

"Yes."

Francis looks at him and smiles. Lets out a teary laugh as he settles his head on the crook of Arthur's shoulder before his arms to engulf in a tight embrace which Arthur returns, gently cradling him in his arms like someone precious and loved.

"I believe you. I believe you," he repeats, over and over until the tears hitches his breath and tighten his voice. Francis shudders, taking a deep calming breath as he relinquishes the shelter on Arthur arms.

"Thank you," he says, cupping Arthur's cheek to give him a soft kiss first on the lips, then on the nose, he lingers upon the brow and speaks, "Thank you for making me so happy Arthur Kirkland," Their eyes meet, both bright and brimming with unspoken emotion as they stay in that one perfect moment silently wishing for it to never end.

But like all moments, they crumble.

"Arthur."

Piece by piece. It fades into oblivion.

Or in this case, it shatters.  

"I'm afraid... it is time for you to wake up."

"Francis –"

Harsh. Painful. The jagged edges bleeding out into reality.

“Forgive me."

* * *

“He’s awake! Gilbert, he’s awake!"

His vision clears to the image of Antonio hovering over him, an uncharacteristic frown mars his usually cheerful face. He sneaks a glance to the right to see Gilbert standing guard, back taut and claws extended while his sharp eyes look ahead into the darkness.

"You scared us Arthur, you weren’t waking up," Antonio voices as he helps him up to a sitting position.

"Francis. Where's –" he struggles to ask against the dryness of his throat.

"Arthur," the notable tone of hesitation is unmistakable, "I am sorry but –"

Arthur cuts him off with a silent gesture of his hand. He knows the rest.

 _A dream_ , he concludes, lips thinning at the memory as he stares at his hand, but it felt so real, he hand curls remembering the sensation of how warm he felt holding Francis in his arms.

"How long was I out?" he asks sullen, suddenly tired and worn. It was a waking dream, of that he is sure.

_But how?_

"About a couple of hours, we thought you hit your head too hard or something," Gilbert answers gruffly, not meeting his gaze as he continue to keep watch.

We have some time then, he concludes, looking at the enchanted crystal glowing with a bright yet muted orange glow, giving them enough light to see a good portion of their surroundings.

"Any idea where we are?" he asks looking up, hoping to see a big hole in the ceiling from which they fell.

There was none. Much to his frustration and disappointment since it practically confirms his theory of the castle possibly having a mind of its own.

_Or that it can be altered based on the desires of it master..._

"Somewhere underground. Looks to be an old cellar judging from the old casks we've seen," answers Antonio while Arthur follows his gaze to see large wooden casks with a heavy layer of dust coating them.

"Did anything happen while I was unconscious?" he inquires, disliking the sudden tense silence that befell upon them.

He is almost afraid to ask.

"What happened?"

"That's just it Arthur," Antonio answers while Gilbert is practically growling for some reason, "nothing happened."

"And it creeps us out. Our instincts are screaming that something is out there to get us but..." Gilbert trails off into a growl, his teeth tightly locking his jaws into a snarl, eyes never leaving the shadows as if waiting for something to suddenly strike.

"What do you mean? Describe them for me," he asks, following Gilbert's gaze into the darkness.

"The shadows move, Arthur. It may not seem obvious with human senses but we feel it. A slight shift in the air. Breathing that is not our own. Sometimes, you note out a pair of hollow eyes and claws threading through the dark.  

"They flit... feet never touching the ground. Like ghosts. Specters. They do not go near the light," Antonio explains, casting a thankful glance at the glowing crystal they've brought along for the journey.

"Arthur, I'm not sure about this but..." Gilbert trails off once more, an uneasy look upon him.

"But what?"

"It seems they're trying to say something... and it's not particularly nice," Gilbert elaborates while Antonio gives a rather pained whine.

"They want us to get out of here?" He throws out a guess, not liking how the wolves were reacting to these so-called 'ghosts'.

"No. They want us to _join_ them. And for some reason, a part of us is drawn to them. It's like a tug. And I can't help but feel that they're just waiting us for to snap or something," Gilbert explains, taking a hesitant step back, away from the dark coils of the unknown, closer towards the comforting shelter of light.

"Artie, now would be a really nice time for ideas on how we're gonna get out of this hole and save Francis because I think I just saw those things flash teeth. Sharp teeth," he adds giving them a worried look.

"I need time... a spell to sharpen sight. I need to see what we are actually dealing with," he answers, mentally hunting down the right spell for the job that doesn't strain him too much.  

It takes him a while, to get a good grasp of the incantation, muttering out a few failed attempts that luckily didn't accidentally blind anyone, but he manages to heighten his abilities just enough to see.

And he didn't like it one bit.

"Those are _not_ mere ghosts," he gasps, blinking a few times to confirm what he is seeing.

"What are they then?" asks the wolves with unnerving synchrony.  

"Shades," he breathes, staring that the horrifying ghostly figures that wear long hemmed robes of shadow and taint, black tapered nails peeking out from the tattered sleeves. Hollow skulls, empty eyes and gaping mouths that open up to reveal a set of serrated teeth. Gangly and sickly bodies, no more than skin and bone, hovering over the ground as they blend effortlessly into the darkness.  

"That's impossible. Shades only appear on-"

"Extremely corrupted ground?" he cuts Antonio off, "And before you argue the need for a gruesome and unjust death, I believe being thrown out to feed a hungry dragon does that to you. Honestly, I'm surprised none of us went insane yet.  

"You mean... these are the elves," Gilbert gapes and Antonio pales.

"What's left of them," he confirms, lips thinning into a grim line.

"Arthur, we need to hurry! Francis."

"I know, Gilbert. But we have a rather unfortunate dilemma on our hands," he points out.

"How do we get rid of them?" Antonio asks, standing up to join Gilbert in his defensive spot.

"Look a bit harder," he commands, eyes narrowing in focus as he moves in for a closer look, just at the edge of where light and darkness meet.

"Arthur, be careful!" "What the hell are you doing?!" They call out as he signals them to lower their voices.

He takes a step forward, testing the limits, a small taunt unspoken as he watches the shadows suddenly swoop in with claws and teeth nearly catching him as he takes a step back just in time to smell the sizzle of smoke and ash as they draw back into hiding.

"If you're close enough, you'll see a reddish glow radiating from a certain part of their bodies. The head and chest are the usual places... sometimes it's in their stomach or neck, those are the crux of their power as well as their weak point," he explains while the two wolves stare at him as if he had just grown another head.

"And your brothers call us werewolves reckless!" Gilbert snorts and Antonio gives him a stiff nod.

"Was that really necessary? You could have just explained that fact instead of literally risking your neck by baiting them to you," Antonio scolds, giving him a rather judging look at that is quite reminiscent of how Alastair and Alwyn look at him whenever he does something foolhardy.

"I needed to be sure," he shrugs with casual nonchalance, earning a reproaching growl from both wolves, "all my knowledge on these things are purely book based and hearsay, I needed to know if such areas of weakness do exist."

"So we just need to hit them where it hurts," Gilbert concludes, grinning with teeth bared as the excitement of an impending fight rushes through him.

"Yes... but we may need to do so repeatedly while avoiding those claws coming at us in incredible speed," he warns, disliking the sudden gleam in those red eyes.  

"How many of these things are we gonna be dealing with?" Gilbert asks while Antonio keeping guard chimes in.

"I counted about five... I think. It's hard to get a definite since they all look almost look alike and blend in so well."

"No need to expect reinforcement if that is what you mean. Shades despite being rather dead still need a bit of sustenance. I suspect that these beings are the only ones at present capable of having solid forms," he informs.

"You mean they consume each other to survive?" Antonio gapes, wide-eyed while Gilbert scrunches his nose in disgust before adding in, "Yeah, and since we didn't meet anything that's not technically dead in this place, we are practically a walking feast to these things."

"But what's holding them back though? Afraid of a bit of light?" Antonio notes.

"A bit of light? No. They are weakened by it because they are mostly made of shadows. But what we have is no ordinary light crystal," Arthur explains ignoring Gilbert's muttering of how anything to do with the Kirklands is anything but ordinary.

"Lemme guess. It's some new charm that emits purifying light or something," Gilbert deadpans, tilting his head as he crosses arms to give Arthur a certain look.

"No, it's not. But that is an interesting idea, I'll be sure to run by it to Alastair. It's actually a type of crystal that we can amplify," he retorts.

"So we can make it brighter," Antonio concludes and Arthur could already see the metaphorical tail wagging behind him.

"Yes. Using the crystal we can have a brighter light source, giving us a wider range. Make it bright enough and we can not only weaken them but slow them down," Arthur confirms, a plan already forming in his head.  

"I'm hearing a big 'but' at the end." Gilbert frowns, which makes Arthur pause before giving him a reply.

"Well... in my current state, I need to focus and maintain constant contact with the crystal..."

"What happens if you accidentally lost contact?" asks Antonio.

"The crystal becomes imbalanced by the sudden loss of energy and may break and plunge us into infinite darkness where we may get ripped apart and eaten by shades."

"So you're basically defenseless," Antonio concludes, a grave look in his eyes as he takes a deep calming breath and adds, "I know we haven't earned it but -"

"I know," Arthur cuts him off, giving them a long look, "but it's not like I have a choice in the matter if we want to save the stupid frog," he snaps, turning his back as he carefully maneuvers the crystal on his lap.  

"You can trust us to protect you," Gilbert declares.

"Trust has nothing to do with this."

"Arthur –"

"Now is not the time for idle chatter, Antonio. I will setup the spell and you two get ready," he retorts, setting himself up against the wall, placing his hands on the warm surface of the crystal as the two silently nods in concession.

"I'm going to dim the lights to draw them in. Prepare yourselves when I change the setting. It won't be gradual, but lucky for us, I have just the thing," he informs, digging through the bags to fish out a pair of reading glasses – his and a spare – all the while keeping his voice low not wanting to risk the possibility of these things actually being able to understand them.

Ignoring the looks he is getting, he digs for some ink and began smearing some of it on the glasses.

"Not. one. word," he warns as he hands them the now tinted lenses which they gladly take but not before giving him a couple of raised brows.

"Okay, this is gonna sound weird coming from me and all but couldn't we just like, I don't know, use the crystal to draw them away while we escape instead of fighting our way out?" Gilbert offers up the idea, his brows furrowing as he tries the glasses on, obviously disliking how their sharp eyes tries to accommodate to the reading glasses, not noticing the incredulous looks until he turns his attention back to them.

"Wow, Gilbert I didn't know –"

"Don't start, Antonio!" he snaps.

"It's not a bad plan... but you forget that I only said the light will weaken them. If they're tempted enough. Desperate enough. _Hungry_ enough. They'll still risk attacking," Arthur explains.

"They're not attacking now," Gilbert points out.

"That's because they're waiting us out hoping that the crystal would eventually run out of energy to keep going. Once they finally figure out that it's not that kind of crystal and that we are trying to escape, they'll attack regardless whether we have a light or not."

"You think they're capable of higher thought?" Antonio asks, a look of disbelief in his eyes.

"A possibility we can't risk."

"So we fight," Gilbert heaves a heavy breath before going into a stance, claws sharp and ready as they begin morphing into a more vicious version of themselves. Half-man. Half-wolf. Great hulking bodies covered with fur, muzzles baring sharp fangs as they stand on two clawed feet.

"We fight." He gives a curt nod as he began dimming the light. The first thing he notices is the sudden shift in the air, like gleeful anticipation, confirming his thoughts of the Shades waiting them out.

Then, the hiss of snarls and he is quite certain that such sounds are not coming from the wolves.

He breathes, eyes unconsciously closing while he forces himself to focus as his stomps down the curling dread in his chest, fingers gripping the crystal tight enough to make his knuckles pale.

The cellar continues to dim, and as the shadows creep closer, the scent of decay draws near, almost coiling just under his nose. It makes him want to vomit.

 _Focus._ he draws a breath, eyes clenching shut as darkness envelopes them for a split second before filling the room with bright almost blinding light.

He hears shrieks, piercing wails along with the smell of ashes and taint. Rumbling growls and snarls fill the air as he struggle to keep focus when his ears catch a sharp yelp and a straining rip of cloth.

"We're fine! Keep your focus!"

 _Antonio_.

"Yeah, one down. A few more to go!" Gilbert calls out, voice noticeably rough, almost akin to a deep growl. He calms considerable at the sound of their voices.

The minutes tick. He could feel himself straining to maintain the level of intensity and its range. His latest update was that there were two more, after the first shade vanquished, the rest went into a frenzy moving in to devour the remnants of the dead elf's soul, ignoring the fight just for a few moments as the hunger within them overrides everything else giving Gilbert and Antonio a chance to kill off two more.

The disadvantage is that while they kill the weaker shades, the two grow stronger from the dead souls they keep devouring.

"Just a bit more, Arthur."

Gilbert sounds tired. Both of them do, judging from the heavy breathing he is hearing. Another snarl, then a sharp shriek and the sound of claws scratching against stone.

A thud. Then a tell tale crunch of bone.

He keeps his eyes closed. Hating the way how blind he is of the current situation, only reliant to Antonio and Gilbert's occasional reports whenever they notice him getting agitated with worry and frustration.

His heart speeds when he hears a whimper and yelp. The dull thud and crack did nothing to ease him one bit.

"I'm fine!" Gilbert gasps out.    

A few more scuffles before he hears the triumphant howls as the last shade gives out its last shriek.

"You... you can open your eyes and stop now, Arthur. They're gone," Antonio informs, fatigue clear in his voice while Gilbert barks in agreement.

He slowly dims the lighting, enabling him to see without damaging his eyesight. His eyes adjust as they focus on the two wolves and the mess of black soot and bones that now litter the cellar floor. Gilbert apparently morphed into his full wolf form during the fight, it was miracle the glass – though lopsided and beyond ruin – still managed to stay securely on him.  

Slowly but surely, he withdraws his connection and the light dims further to a more comfortable level, it was like thin tendrils of power gently unwrapping themselves from their hold as the curl back into him. His fingers are numb, he expects the numbness to disappear and be replaced by a rather sharp tingling sensation which can be easily remedied by a soothing salve.

 _A salve, we deemed unnecessary to carry_ , he frowns ripping a few pieces of cloth from his shirt to wrap them up with. It is not a grave injury per se, but it is quite uncomfortable.

He takes a moment to breathe, gather his thoughts to give his mind time to adjust from the exercise, his mind is still reeling from the spell much to his annoyance. He unconsciously traces his fingers on his piercing, knowing how such a spell shouldn't have such an effect on him if he is not wearing it.

_Protection he says. More like shackles._

He is mentally exhausted. Despite his efforts to maintain a certain resistance and focus for magic over the years, there is still that noticeable atrophy.

"That was more exhausting than expected," he comments, eyes casually giving the cellar a quick survey, noting how the air seems a lot less heavy now that the Shades are no longer there to taint the air with their foul corrupting presence. The wolves a bit preoccupied in recuperating to give him a quip which worries him a bit.

"You two rest. I'm going to look around and see if we have a way out," he informs, catching a pair of disapproving frowns before both wolves let out a gruff sigh.

"Just be careful," Gilbert warns, wincing a bit when Antonio gives his side a poke earning a snarl which the other ignores in favor of look for possible injuries.

Arthur gives them a nod and he begins exploring the room, hoping to find something of use, and that they hopefully did not end up in a dead end. He looks up to the ceiling once more, brows furrowing, wondering how the tile switch happened in the first place. He is familiar with such traps – horrid things that trigger upon proximity rather than actual contact – yet he did not expect to find it in such an ancient place.

 _How do they even maintain it?_ he wonders, considering such spells need a steady source to feed on in order to retain such unique abilities only to be distracted by something else.

His eyes catch a flicker, a small glint under the muted light. He reaches out and feels a slight indention on the seemingly flat surface, _a button_. Cautiously, he gives it a small push, earning a deep rumble as the wall before him opens up to a flight of stairs leading upwards.

 _Could it be?_ he hopes, taking a small step up, testing the durability and the presence of malicious spells, there is none. In fact, unlike the rest of the castle, it seems this particular part of it is free from the taint.

 _Suspicious_. He frowns, about to take a step back when he hears Antonio cry out.  

"Arthur, help!"

"What happened?" he asks, rushing to meet the scene of Gilbert coiling into a ball, tight with pain with Antonio helpless at his side.

"Gilbert!" he exclaims, joining Antonio beside him.

"It hurts," he gasps, a small whimper escaping his lips as he clutches his injured side tighter.

"He was fine a moment ago. We were just talking when the pain started so suddenly," Antonio informs, jaws clenching tight in frustration, "I can barely talk to him through the bond, Arthur. It's _that_ bad."

"Let me see." He kneels down to examine the wound, grimacing at the deep wounds left by sharp claws, bleeding and angry red, he notes the depth and Gilbert flinches before shivering uncontrollably.

"S-Stop it," he rasps out, eyes wide as he blindly grapples for something to hold on to. Antonio catches him in a strong steady grip whispering words of assurances hoping to calm him, he briefly throws him a fearful panicked look.

_Do something!_

Arthur clenches his teeth in tightly as he gingerly runs a small spell over the wound, hoping to find the source of this.

"No," he gasps out.

"What! What's wrong Arthur?!" Antonio looks up in alarm, and he debates on whether to tell him the truth or not.

_He's being corrupted. The Shades carry more than shadows and death. The taint is reacting to some primal attribute found within your origins of black magic and madness._

"It's the corruption... it's spreading...." He struggles for an answer that would not send the other wolf into a mad panic.

"What do you mean? Is he... are _we_ going to..."

"No! We are not going turn into those creatures!” _By the Stars, I hope not._ “Calm yourself, Antonio!" he calls out, grasping Antonio by the shoulders to give him a shake.

"Breathe. He's going to be fine," he assures, his mind launching into a rapid state of mild panic.

_That's a lie. He needs more than a purification spell._

"Really?" His eyes wide, red and watery, desperation and fear intermingling into a dangerous concoction, a long agonized howl stops whatever reply that comes, shifting Antonio's attention back to his pained friend.

"The v-voices. Make th-them stop. T-Too l-loud! MAKE THEM STOP!!!" He thrashes, teeth baring into a tight grimace as the fever hazes his eyes into a dull red.  

"Arthur, do something! I... I think I can _hear_ it." Antonio pales, freezing into place as his breathing speeds up while a look of horror comes upon his face.

"Arthur... They want..."

"Stop listening to those dead whispers, Antonio! I need you to focus, I need you to help me so I can take care of Gilbert," he tightens his hold on the wolf, forcing him to look at him, focus on him.

"Don't let yourself be lulled into madness, you are stronger than this," he whispers, allowing a bit of relief to fill him as a pair of olive eyes clear enough and give him a firm nod of affirmation.

"I'm going to do a purification spell on. Hold him down, I will be using much of his own reserves to deal with the damage. It would not be a pleasant experience, "he says grimly, knowing that such a spell is only a temporary solution.

He tries to ignore the howls and screams as he cleans out as much corruption he can muster. He does not know how long it took him but eventually the screams fade and Gilbert finally calms to a slumber.

"He's resting. It will take time for the spell to do its work, but stay with him," he orders, standing up from his crouch and begins digging through their bags, gingerly pulling out a quill and parchment, giving Gilbert a brief glance of concern.  

_I hope he has enough time before the next attack of corruption comes._

The nib barely touches the parchment’s surface and his hands start shaking uncontrollably, pieces of parchment slipping through his grip when his fingers start experiencing a spasm. He gasps when a sharp prickling sensation goes trailing up his arms like electricity.

 _Dammit! I don’t have time for this!_ He balls his hands tight, releasing them only when he deems them steady enough to write, and more importantly draw.

"What are you doing?" Antonio asks, clearly noticing his current battle to control his hands.  

"I'm going to draw a healing circle. Here, hold this for me," he says, casually getting up and begins drawing a circle on the ground.

"What's this?" Antonio questions, looking at the thin folded pages in his hand.

"A message," he informs, getting up from the finished pattern and gives a sharp clap, activating the spell.

"Arthur, what –"

"The castle is partially sentient and the land is steeped deep in corruption. You two can only handle so much. This thing will help." Another clap and the circle flare up with a bright yellow light.

"I don't understand... the dragon can control this place?"

"In certain ways, yes. However, his influence can only go so far. I'm not sure even he knows what this place is," he explains, holding his hand against the yellow glow, his eyes flash bright green as the light adapts a more solid attribute.

"You talk as if this thing is actually capable of thought. Of _reason_."

"That's what I'm hoping for to be honest," he replies earning a surprised look of confusion from the wolf.  

"What?" Antonio leaves Gilbert's side, placing a hand against the now solid barrier, suddenly realizing that he cannot get out.

"Arthur? Let me out! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!" He throws his shoulder against the wall of solid light, only to be thrown back making him bare his fangs in frustration.

"Something very _very_ stupid," he confesses, throwing Antonio a small smile as he adds, "Do me a favor, tell my brothers... I'm sorry."

"Arthur, no! Don't this alone!" He slams against the barrier once more, Arthur ignores him as with one final clap, the runes drawn upon the floor flare green. A loud crack. Like the very heavens breaking apart. A fading voice and silence. Arthur is alone with nothing but a bag full of supplies fit for three and a room that smells of fire and chalk dust.

 _It's for their own good_ , he tells himself. _Gilbert needs immediate attention. Alwyn is the best healer I know. I can't risk Antonio either, with the bond, even he may fall as well,_ he reasons, telling himself that it is for the best. All the words in the world to cover up the nagging hitch of uncertainty hanging at the back of his mind.

He takes a breath. Hands shaking uncontrollably as his knees give way. His vision blurs and the vertigo threatens to make him vomit. _Too much. Too fast._ He forces his eyes open, thankful that the sudden rush of vertigo has abated. His hands still shake, he balls them up and shoves them inside his pockets. A shudder goes through him when a sudden gust of cold air runs through him. He takes a moment. Maybe a few more than he needs but he takes it still. Finally, he gets up, knees a bit weak but enough to support him. He gazes back into the open stairwell, and takes a tentative step forward.

"Now, time to find myself a dragon."

* * *

He stops just by the doorway, made of heavy oak and iron. His lips thin into to a line as he gives the door a cautious push, it opens before him with ease revealing the same silent walls stained with ancient magic. He notes how he is currently in what appears to be a circular room, large and encompassing, high ceilings with thick stone columns as support and an empty fireplace with stains of ash and soot, he can almost imagine the many beings that would have lived in this place. Marking these very walls with their presence and history.

 _Frolicking in blood sacrifices and death from the looks of it_ , he concludes, spying several sets of skeletons of various sizes and forms haphazardly left or cast aside in certain corners of the room where the light from his crystal can barely reach.  

His footsteps echo against the cold marble floor.

“That was a very foolish move.”

His heart stills and his fingers tighten in response. The voice, achingly familiar but different, a hint of edge as it carries across the room.

“Is it?” he asks, not bothering to turn, there is no one there, an old trick to make him look in a false direction and be ambushed.

_“Caught you, little rabbit!”_

_“Let me go, you stupid frog!”_

“Yes, it was a very foolish and selfish move,” the voice answers, somewhere indistinct, as if the very walls speak in his stead.

He keeps his gaze steady, shoulders tensing on alert as something in him hones in to the seemingly indistinct bare wall just by the tattered tapestries.

“Why don’t you show yourself to me first before we decide to discuss the vast issues of selfishness we have for each other,” he snaps, eyes flashing green as the edges of the illusion waver like a small ripple in the once still waters of a lake.

Faint. Barely noticeable. But still there. Still out of place.

“Your eyes are sharp as ever, little rabbit.” The illusion shatters like glass as Francis reveals himself, dressed in what appears to be a plain black tunic and pants.

_Francis?_

It’s like staring at a stranger, the similarities are there but something is off. Missing. Altered just so that you can still see the base foundations of what was and possibly no longer what is.

_What happened to you?_

“Not what you expect?” he muses, ever regal and gallant in his poise as a jagged smile reveals a nice set of fangs, cocking his head to the side, placing emphasis on the curl of horns threading through his hair.

“I know it’s a bit… different.” His grin widens, a hand goes up to the ram like horns to give it a nice pat. It gives Arthur a good view of very long and presumably sharp nails.

“I don’t suppose you’ll care to explain how you ended up like that,” he replies, watching as the muted light plays upon the sharpness of Francis’ features, his brow, and his cheeks particularly, appears to be able to cut glass.

A flicker of movement catches his eye and it takes all his will not to gasp at the long scaly tail hiding behind Francis’ legs.

“I’ll be glad to! Once upon a time… Hush, Arthur!” he snaps at him suddenly with a hiss, his pupils thinning into slits, “I'm telling you a story. So, listen. Okay?” he tones finishes off sweetly and light, batting his lashes as if the brief show of temper was a mere slip and nothing more.  

Arthur purses his lips in reply, holding his tongue hoping to buy himself enough time to get a good gist of the situation at hand, because he was not joking when he told Antonio that he needs the dragon to be reasonable.

_Not half-mad and unstable._

“Good boy,” he gives a satisfied nod and launches into a tale. His hands glowing a faint blue as they weave out a story out of ice dust and magic.

“A long time ago, there were beings called the Corrupted.” The fine dust of ice meld together and crystallize, lanky thin monsters full of sharp angles and stained with a sinister dark tint that makes something in Arthur lurch in concern.

_Blood._

“And they created great disasters and sickness throughout the land. I'm sure you've read your fair share of Fey history so I will cut to the chase. Like all things the pose great danger to our world, we band together to fix it.” He waves his hand and the creatures fall against the army of Fey, the crystals shatter into dark dust left to melt on the ground.  

“I'm guessing that it took more than a few spells to fix this problem,” he drawls, earning a wide appraising grin.

“Correct! Ever the clever rabbit! Always learning… always _so_ observant… always burrowed in dusty tomes and stinky candles… I bet you know everything so long as it’s written down on some moldy tablet or vellum… But wait! The Corrupted were _never_ documented. That means you don’t know this story, don’t you, little rabbit?” He practically beams, launching into a rapid triad of gleeful expressions, finishing off with a mocking look of disbelief.

“Not for public knowledge then,” he assumes, “Why? Your Elders deem them unworthy to be remembered by the masses? Highly ironic considering the circumstances,” he says dryly, a clear sneer as his nose scrunches up in dislike.

“It is a tale mostly passed on by word of mouth...” He gives Arthur a wry smile. “Eroded and altered by time until it is nothing more but a bedtime story to scare the children to sleep… but the truth is always so much more interesting than bedtime stories with made up happy endings,

“The Corrupted were defeated. True. Peace prevailed. Let’s delude ourselves a moment and consider its merit. Everything all in order? No. My clever rabbit, what do you think?” he asks, indigo eyes aglow with deep crimson ringing the edges.  “What. did. they. miss.”

“You mean aside from the fact that they have been left them unchecked for too long that the territories they have claimed have been corrupted by poorly managed black magic,” he replies, raising a brow in question making Francis chuckle.

“A clue then. Why were the werewolves spared? We were in the position, we had justifiable reasons. We could afford a bit of blood on our hands. But why? Why go for the high ground of mercy and second chances? After all the destruction and loss, why?” He turns morose, pondering as he examines his nails, looking up to meet Arthur’s gaze, playful and predatory.

“The…” he hesitates, cautious of what the answer may earn from Francis’ volatile mood, “All that taint and corruption has to go somewhere… the wolves were spared because if you kill them, it may run the risk of spreading even more corruption and taint in the land. They paid a price… they –”

_Clap! Clap! Clap!_

“Well done! They were slaughtered Arthur. A glorious battle for the ages! Every last one of them and how easy it was to forget. To forget the prices left unpaid in the throes of victory. They destroyed the vessels and forgot about the poison within until it was too late. Too late. Tainted was this land and everything within it,” he descends into a mad cackle and adds, “And now, look how they scramble and panic to undo the mistakes and oversights of the past!”  

“The sacrifices,” he gasps, suddenly feeling sick.

“You look a little green, rabbit. Finally figured it out? This land… it feeds not on magic per se but on _life_. It needs to be fed unless you want it looking for more. Which begs the question, why are _you_ not affected?”

His breathing hitches as Francis moves in a bit closer, just a few feet away.

“That's –”

“It's not fair!” Francis bellows making Arthur jolt and take back a step, his teeth clenching tight into a snarl while the very walls seem to shake in fury.

“You and those mutts get to walk in this cesspool of dark magic and corruption and remain unaffected while I and my kind turn into monsters! WHY!" he growls, claws tapering into points while his body crouches down tight as if ready for strike only to freeze as if in realization.

“Forgive me, that was rude,” he laughs, shoulders relaxing as he goes into a less threatening posture, “Now... the story... oh yes. So after killing of that race of greedy tainted elves…”

“What?” he breathes out, it suddenly makes sense, why the elves, their Elders in particular, view the concept of black magic so negatively.

After all, how many repetitions of such histories can one take?

“Oh? Did I not mention it? A thousand pardons.” He folds his arm across his chest and sweeps down for a deep flamboyant bow. “You see Arthur,” he looks up, adopting a lecturing tone, “the real reason why we never placed the event in official writing is because of shame and pride. Foolish. Selfish. They were so embarrassed... to be faced with the reality that even our kind can be seduced into practicing the dark arts until it consumed their very beings. Why do you think it has always been elves to be sacrificed? It's easier to hide one's mistakes that way don't you think?” he tilts his head to the side, before continuing on with his explanation.    

“It’s very corrosive magic… the longer you stay, the less sane you become. Those who were too weak for the transformation to take hold...” he trails off, leaving Arthur to make his own conclusions.

“Turn into shades.”

“And I do not know which Fate is worse,” Francis sighs, a genuine look of torment and pain upon his features. For a moment, it gives him hope, that Francis is not lost to the madness of this place, that there is a chance for him to pull through, to come back.

However, as quickly as it appeared, it swiftly morphs once more into a mask of false smiles and cheer, “What? No, questions? That’s hardly like you, Arthur.”  

“And your kind call _us_ barbaric, how do they even know when –”

“Feeding time? Oh! That's what the sentries are for. They watch for fluctuations in the barrier. A sudden spike in the air that seem to chill their very bones. As for the possibility of this land being purified... well... give or take a millennia or two, depending on how long their sacrifices last. The longer I live... the more corruption I absorb... you get it do you not? One has to allow nature to take its course… let the corruption die out, so to speak,” he explains.  

“What happened to the other dragon?” Arthur asks, hoping to see another break like before.

“She pushed herself to the point of insanity that eventually... this place consumed her. I decided to put her out of her misery. Lucky her.” The smile is still there. Still cold and rigid. The real Francis nowhere in sight.  

“So, what now? Are you going to consume me?” he challenges, chest puffing out a little, ignoring the pounding heartbeat that threatens to make him lurch.

“Well...” he pauses, giving Arthur a long evaluating look, “you do look quite tasty little rabbit… and who knows when I ever will have the privilege of a solid meal... instead of being force fed this taint,” he bites off, his words garbling into a growling snarl, “Did I not say it was foolish to return the wolves? I could have had them first!”

“You honestly think I’ll let you eat them?” he retorts, moving another step back only to realize with dawning horror that he could not move his feet, looking down he sees two sigils, triggered traps paralyzing him from the waist down.

“Oh my, is the little rabbit scared?” he croons. “Don't worry, it’s nothing more but a paralysis spell, hardly harmful. I am still quite amazed, how much of these little spells are found along the castle and how easy it is for me to manipulate their placement,” he gives Arthur a wide hungry grin, as he slowly makes his way towards him. “Did you forget? You always have a tendency to forget about important things… Now, now. Don’t struggle, it will be quick. I promise.”

He smiles. Soft. Gentle. Comforting. Achingly familiar.

_No, these are mere echoes. Echoes of a man lost. No! He’s still there! He has to be!_

“Francis, snap out of it!” he exclaims, struggling against the spell.

_I need to break his focus somehow._

“What are you talking about Arthur? I am perfectly fine.” He stops, just a few steps before reaching out with one clawed hand. “Now, be a good bunny and behave.”

“No!” He fires off a shockwave, the direct impact sends Francis against the wall, giving Arthur the much needed disorientation to break the spell along with dispelling every trap found within the room. He wastes no time to activate a repelling charm so Francis can no longer activate or reposition traps within the area. _At least for a while… just to buy some time._ He ignores the jarring hit of vertigo and nausea, steadying himself as he moves to a better position.

 _Think, Arthur. Francis is still in there._ He tells himself, holding on to the brief slip in hopes to regain the rest.

“Aw, don't be like that,” he cackles, bracing himself against the wall, swaying a bit as he pushes himself to stand, “I'm just _so_ hungry and you smell _so_ good. So fresh. So clean. Just a bite. Tiny. Never even notice an arm. Humans live with no arms. or legs. or eyes. Oh, how I will treasure you. Bit. by. Bit.” Madness fills his eyes, mouth wide and full of teeth.

“Francis, don't make me do this,” he warns – _begs_ – fingers brushing the hilt of a dagger at his hip.

 _Please, don’t._ They tighten into a grip as his stance shifts on the defensive.

The action makes Francis pause, “Are you going to kill me and end this then?”

 _I don’t know, can I?_ Can he even do it? After everything?

“Escape this wretched place. Go back to your friends and family. Leave me here to bleed!” He goes into hysterics, rage and despair fluctuating as his features contorts and sharpens.  “All alone. I'll be so lonely, little rabbit. So lonely… you move on and forget while I stay here, abandoned and forgotten while the voices tell their tales of horror over and over.” Fangs lengthen. “No! I won't let you. You are _mine_.” The tails whips wildly like a snake. “MINE!” Wild eyes flash with magic and hunger. “And you will be here. Forever. You'll take care of me. We take care of each other. Forever and ever.”

He lunges snarling with bared claws and Arthur jumps back with a now bared dagger on his hand.

“Snap out of it!” _I don’t want to fight you._ “Don't let this place take you.” _Wake up, you idiot!_ “This is not you!” he cries out, watching as Francis circle him like predator, all pretenses of sanity gone.

“Oh, but this is me. It has always been me. The _real_ me. Just a bit... twisted. And a lot more honest with what I want.”

 _Lies! That’s the madness talking!_ He insists, forcefully pushing away that sliver of doubt whispering, _But is it not in such madness we see the truth?_

“No it's not! The real Francis is in there dreaming like a fool.”

_I just need to wake him up._

“Come now, Arthur. Aren't you a bit too old to believe in dreams?”

“Aren't a bit old to get carried away by a bit of taint?” he bites, earning a snarl.

“A bit?” he gasps, a mocking look of offense, “Oh, little rabbit. You have no idea how deep it goes. It consumes you. Takes you apart and make into something else. The things it whispers to you… even your screams would not be enough to drown them out. Look at me. I _am_ Francis. This is me now.”

“Not if I can't help it.”

“Little rabbit wants a fight? Perhaps it is not I, but _you_ , who needs to wake up,” he sneers, as if the dagger he holds is a mere toy. Harmless. Barely worth his notice. But most importantly, easily breakable.  

“I’ll say it one more time, I will bring you back no matter what, even if I have to beat you into a bloody pulp to get you back,” he retorts, his free hand reaching for the piercing – an all too audible click echoes before the world is consumed by green fire.

* * *

He is in the room again.  The same eternal emptiness of white, it is in these moments he prefers to return to the comforting embrace of the shadows. There, at least he can pretend to dream. To be away from the creeping nightmares that haunt him. The dark whispers of death and blood that seem to engrave themselves into his very soul, slowly unraveling what is left of his sanity. He glances at his feet, no longer chained and burnt by cold iron, he can almost delude himself in this false freedom.

“Francis.”

He turns with a start, turning wide-eyed at what appears to be a new visitor.

“Matthew,” he breathes, looking at the familiar figure, and Francis cannot help but wonder if this is just his subconscious refusing to accept reality as it is, so strong is the denial that it conjures up an old friend for confirmation.

> _A wall of fire melts away the ice. With a simple flick of a wrist, wild lightning draws forth from his fingertips as a wall of ice blocks it._
> 
> _“Fuck.”_
> 
> _“I thought you wanted to fight, little one?”_
> 
> _He did not deign as response as he gives the ground a solid stomp, shaking the earth on which they stood and throwing the enemy off with several shock blasts._

“It is good to see you still here, I had feared the worse when I dared to venture further into the world of dreams. The things I saw… no matter, what is important is that I have found you both. You did talk right? _Actually_ talk?”

Francis stares at him a bit dumbfounded, unfamiliar to the rapid race of words and suddenly everything makes sense. _Of course._

> _The dagger drips red as his mutters out an incantation. Red runes glow as the growls grow louder demanding release._
> 
> _A wild snarl full of teeth and bite cut off with a solid punch to the jaw._
> 
> _And for a moment, blue indigos bleed recognition._
> 
> _“A-Arthur?”_
> 
> _“Francis?”_

“I suppose I should thank you. For giving me a chance to talk to Arthur. Before I am truly lost,” he spares a smile only to upturn when he realizes something very important, “You shouldn't even be here, my friend. Your health –”

“I know,” Matthew interrupts, a sigh escapes as their eyes meet from across the now vast room, deep knowing eyes so heavy with resignation, and it alarms him.

> _He gasps as sharp claws burrow deep into his side while his hand hangs mangled and heavy by his side._
> 
> _“Did you honestly think that was enough? Poor gullible little rabbit.”_

“What have you done, Matthew?”

“What I have done is nothing of great consequence,” he dismisses the thought before it was spoken, “you are wrong you know.... there is hope still for you and Arthur.”

“A happy ending?” he laughs, “No, my friend. Enough of your misplaced dreams,” he says, earning a rare scowl from Matthew.

“It is no dream,” he insists.

“What then?” A challenge hidden beneath a smile’s guise.

> _The fall of a hundred arrows. Flaming tips of green fire._
> 
> _A trap triggers – a paralysis spell written in blood._
> 
> _“Now, be a good fucking frog and behave.”_

“A wish. A strong one at that. ”

“I-I do not understand.” He steps back, suddenly finding Matthew a little too close for comfort.

“You don't have to.” He smiles, “Sometimes, it’s just easier to hold on to hope and believe,” he adds, cupping Francis’ face in his hands, “everything will be all right.” So thin and frail, yet they always seem to exude such sureness and strength that he cannot help but draw on it.

Draw on the hope.

On happiness within this reality.  

“Matthew –”

“Hush, my friend. It is time to wake up.”

He sees the red door again and Matthew gestures him towards it. As Francis reaches for the knob, unlike the many attempts made, there were no long endless runs towards it, there were no chains binding him in place, this time, he actually reaches the knob – cold solid metal – and the door opens pulling him in towards the exit.

A slam echoes through the white room. Matthew lingers behind, a small peaceful smile upon his features, mirroring his unconscious form within reality.

“I wish you happiness, old friend.”

And with that he fades. No more dreams. Just sleep and peace.

* * *

“Arthur,” he gasps out, immediately seeking his presence only to find himself unable to move, pain and heavy exhaustion weighing him down into the hard cold stone floor. Arthur, holding a grim look as he approaches him with caution.

“Francis,” he responds in a rather clipped manner that sends a pang of worry through him.

_I did something. I hurt him. I –_

“Arthur, did I… did I hurt you?” he asks, struggling as he sits up, a heavy stab of dread in his heart as he takes the chance to take a good look at him. Torn clothes and claw marks, deep angry red marks mar the side of his cheek and collar while his clothes barely hang on him. His breathing is heavy, a bit strained, Francis suspects a bruised or broken rib. His heart lurches when he sees the bleeding mess of Arthur’s hand and pictures how it will never hold a pen the same way ever again. His gaze lingers on the growing stain on Arthur’s side.

“I’m fine.”

_No. No, you’re not. You’re hurt badly and the fault is mine. I should have been stronger. I should have been able to break through the hold. I should – wait._

“How?” he rasps as the reality of things finally fall into place. He is truly back. He is no longer trapped in that awful white room.

_No more whispers._

_This is real!_ He realizes, casting a fast glance at his surroundings, solid stone walls with a thick coating of frost, and burnt fallen debris all around.  

“A simple spell of purification.”

 _Simple?! Nothing in this place is ever simple!_ His mind lashes out before a dawning horror of clarity comes upon him.

“Arthur, what did you do?!” he asks, heart racing in a panic, “The price. You couldn't possibly.”

“It was a good price. A _fair_ price. ”

“Arthur. _Please_. You need to tell me. What did you give up?”  A spark of agitation and frustration. He can never forgive himself for this. Nor can he even forgive Arthur, for how could he? How dare he take up a burden that was not his to bear.

“You know… how black magic is not inherently evil as everybody claims… that if not for it being misused or abused… it is still magic and there’s nothing wrong with magic,” he deflects once more, eyes turning distant and resigned.

 _Yes, Arthur, because making deals with demons and using your blood as a conduit doesn’t scream evil at all!_ He wants to scream, oh how much he wants to throttle the man right now with his ever gray views on the concepts of magic.

_Arthur Kirkland, you have no idea how fortunate you are that I can barely move a single muscle right now._

“Arthur, stop babbling! Tell me, now, or so help I will –” he stresses, eyes snapping bright with impatience as he watches the passive look turn into genuine surprise.

“By the stars, you’re back!” He rushes in, scooping him up in an embrace, “You’re really back.” His voice cracks a bit, the sudden rush of relief in his breath as he embraces him tighter.

“I’m back,” he whispers back, taking the moment and relishing in the warmth before he disengages and asks, “but at what cost?”

“Do you remember how my mother lost her life?” he asks and Francis stiffens at the question. He has heard the tale before, when the brothers got a bit too deep in their cups on one night, singing old lullabies and regaling old tales of childhood.

He gives a solemn nod as Arthur pulls out a small stone amulet.

“Alastair convinced me to bring one. I didn’t even know he had another in his possession,” he muses, holding the stone up with his fingers, “So small… one could not help but underestimate the power it holds,” he remarks, enclosing it in his grip and pocketing it.  

“How are you feeling Francis?” he asks, green eyes looking at him so intensely as his expecting him to lash out and bolt.

“I feel…” he pauses, searching for a proper description, “heavy, like a weight is on me and that –”

“You’re not as strong as you used to be,” he finishes for him, reaching out towards him only to hiss at the sudden sharp pain on his ear.

“Do you have any idea how hard it was to get this power limiter on you?” Arthur remarks while he reaches to touch the sloppily pierced ear, wincing to note how raw it felt.  

“So this is why I’m sane. Because of the power limiter.”

“It _used_ to be a power limiter, now it has the properties akin to my mother’s stones. The transformation though…” he trails off, a worried look on his face.

“I see…” He looks at his hands, ugly deformed claws with bony knuckles and leathery skin, he chokes down a sob when he sees the tail and feels the weight of horns.

_I’m a monster._

“I’m sorry.” The words take him by surprise, looking up to see a visibly upset Arthur, “I wanted to do more… but –” he bites his lip, shoulders suddenly tense.

“You did enough,” he assures, and perhaps it is the sincerity of it, the lack of blame and surrender that throws Arthur off for the familiar look of determination and stubbornness is set upon his face once more.

His green eyes narrow in scrutiny, approaching such a simple statement of assurance with such complexity that he could not help but chuckle.

“I believe there is a saying… it could have been worse,” he says lightly with a smile.

“You’re not a monster,” he suddenly declares, eyes burning with unspoken fervor as he moves to clasp Francis’ hands which he immediately tries to take away only for Arthur to tighten his hold even further.    

“I’ll say it again and again if I have to. What you are now does not dictate the nature of your being. You are you. You are Francis Goodfaith, do not let the horrors of the past rule you,” he says, his gaze never faltering. “Now, aside from the much obvious reasons of distress, how are you feeling?” he asks, giving him a familiar smile which he cannot help but return, faltering when he remembers on very important detail.

“It would make me feel better if you would stop trying to avoid the topic. The price, Arthur,” he insists, refusing to let the topic go, and while it will be better for his heart and health he prefers to know the truth.

Arthur is looking at him again, hesitant and cautious, like he will break into pieces any moment.

“Arthur!” he snaps, hoping to jolt him into answering but to no avail.

Arthur heaves out a heavy sigh, “Magic. Specifically, my magic.”

“No, Arthur –” _I’m not worth it. I’m not worth this sacrifice._  

“Oh, it not that bad.  It's worth the cost, to have you back, I’ll gladly do it again if I am able.”

_But you’re not! You’re wounded and possibly suffering from a vast amount of backlash from exerting yourself too much._

“And besides, all that magic… it needed to go somewhere lest I desire to burn myself out from the sheer amount of backlash I’d get for using magic in this condition.”

“Well, I’m so glad it all worked out for you in the end,” he snaps, jaw clenching tight with the flurry of emotion taking over. He is relieved to say the least, Arthur is – considering the conditions at hand – going to be all right. But he is angry too. From worry or frustration he does not know, but the urge to give this brat a good hook to the face sounds lovely at the moment. “Wait, you can see me… how?”

Arthur turns hesitant at the question, a fragile almost vulnerable look upon him as he replies, “well… it’s a bit complicated…”

“I’m quite sure I can handle another complication,” he deadpans.

“Well, you see… you know how Alastair tends to make custom made charms... and well…” He gives Francis a presenting gesture as if it is enough of an answer.

“I do not understand. What does that have to do with the fact that you can see me despite being devoid of magic?”

“It’s because in order for you to be able to even use the altered charm, you need a certain part of me to activate it…”

“Are you implying what I _think_ you’re implying.” _Surely, he is not that foolish!_

“Possibly… what do you _think_ I am implying?”

“Arthur Kirkland, did you actually bind yourself to me?’ he asks in disbelief.

“I was running out of options!” he exclaims, turning defensive.

“So you decide to bind yourself to me for all eternity? Are you aware of the graveness –”

“Believe me, I’m quite aware of the implications and I don’t really give a bloody damn about it!” Arthur cuts him off with a sharp snap.

“You’ve literally chained your soul to mine! You’ve practically condemned yourself to me. Did you forget? I am bound to this place. I am to remain here until this tainted land is healed!”

_Arthur is stuck with me. Bound to a deformed elven beast with nary a whiff of magic to come to his defense._

“I did no such thing!” he stands up in offense before kneeling down once more, taking a deep breath before adding, “And you are not _stuck_ here, where were you when I discussed the properties of my mother’s stones?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” he stares in confusion.

“Think, Francis! I gave up my magic. Powerful magic,” he stresses, looking at him sternly expecting him to connect whatever clues he had left for him to figure out.

“Now is not the time for me to stroke that oversized ego of yours, Arthur,” he says earning a snort.

“You honestly think my magic is that cheap? That it is only enough for you alone? This den, it is the center of this place right?”

“Yes?” he confirms, a furrow upon his brows as he struggles to string where this conversation is heading.

“Look around, what else do you see?”

The question confuses him, the room looks barren, desolate and cold. “I don’t – it’s a circle!” He begins to see it now, a faint glow tracing the shape of the room.  

“It took me a while to realize too… how easy it was to use… I had enough magic to purify this room by using the bond you had with this place,   _that_ is the other price paid.”

“The price is that I am no longer able to influence this place,” he gasps disbelieving.

“Believe it or not, the land itself wants to heal. It will be slow but in time, life with grow here once more. Starting in this very room, much like the clarity charms it’s purity will spread and clean the taint, washing away the madness and blood.” Arthur gives him a smile, a silent promise of assurance.

“Everything will be all right,” he whispers in shock, choking out a joyful sob of relief.

“Yes, it will,” Arthur echoes in the sentiment, taking his hands, firmly holding them with one hand.

“And you don’t mind, being with me… like this?” he cannot help but ask.  

“No, I don’t.” he replies in earnest. “the better question is if you mind being stuck with me for the rest of your life.”

“It’s not like I have choice,” he snorts.

“Look, I know my plans aren’t always the smartest of plans but...”

“I know. And thank you. For everything. Now, I believe you are in due for a rest. We can talk later,” he assures, finally returning the smile.  

“I better not wake with one arm missing, Frog,” Arthur warns earning a chuckle.

“Don't insult me. I have better taste than that… You are actually going to do this. You’re actually going to stay. With _me_.”

“Of course, I am. After all, it’s only proper after that confession of yours.”

“You call that a confession?”

“It was a lovely confession. And I have given my reply. Did I not say? I regret nothing.”

“Yes. Yes, you did,” he sighs, perhaps breathing in relief for the first time in what seemed like ages. “I love you,” his voice cracks and the tears threatens to spill.

“I love you too. Now, let me sleep,” Arthur replies, a slow groggy voice heavy with near-slumber making Francis smile wider.

And so the wizard’s tale ends with a new one waiting to begin.

**-END-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there we have it. i hope you guys enjoyed the story. comments are always lovely.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always lovely. ^_^


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